“Well, I thought perhaps you--you cared after that first day when you came here.” “Not before that?” She laughed. “Come, how _could_ I? Why, I'd hardly seen you.” “Well, I did, anyway,” George told her. “I loved you from the very minute you shot out of the cab that day. There! But even this isn't the proper thing. I've been promising myself all night to say four words to you--just four. Now I'm going to say them: Mary, I love you.” She looked in his eyes for a moment, answering the signal that shone thence; and then she laughed that clear pipe of mirth which was so uniquely her own possession. “Oh, I say, you mustn't do that,” George cried. He was really perturbed. “I can't help it. You are so utterly foolish.” “I'm not. It's the proper thing. I tell you I've planned it all out. I love you. I've never said it to you before. Now it's your turn.” “But what on earth am I to say?” “You've got to say that you love me.” “You're making a farce of it.” “No, I tell you I've planned it all out. I can't go on till you've said it.” “You can't expect me to say: 'George, I love you.' It's ridiculous. It's like a funny story.” “Oh, never mind what it's like. Do be serious, Mary. How can I be sure you love me if you won't tell me?” For the first moment since its happening the thought of Bob Chater and of Mrs. Chater passed completely from Mary's mind. She looked around: there was no soul in sight. She listened: there was no sound. She clasped her fingers about his; leaned towards him, her face upturned.... He kissed her upon the lips.... “The plans,” said George after a moment, “have all gone fut. I never thought of that way.” “It's much better,” Mary said. “The other's not a patch upon it,” said George. III.