Have you the slightest notion of
how many years I have loved you, Dora?"
"Not quite so loud," she reproved me. "I believe it began in dear old St.
John's. You were about fourteen when you declared your passion, and I
wore pigtails and exceedingly short skirts. My legs, also, were the
spindliest things."
"Yes, that was the beginning, Dora, and it has continued ever since.
During the years I spent abroad we kept on writing. It seemed to me that
the whole thing was settled. I've always had your pictures with me; the
first was little Dora, and the other one was taken when you first did
your hair up and wore long dresses. During all that time St. John's was
the garden of the Hesperides, and you were the golden thing I was toiling
for. When you wrote that you were coming to New York I took the next boat
over. Then you told me I must wait until you graduated. And now, after
your commencement, I hoped, indeed I hoped--I'm afraid I'm worrying you,
dear."
She smiled at me, very pleasantly, but the little dimple held naught but
mystery. I really think her eyes implied a sort of regret, as if she
wished she could make the ordeal less hard for me.
The waiter brought the oysters, which Dora consumed appreciatively. I was
simply compelled to eat also, lest she should deem me a peevish loser in
the great game I had sought to play. Yet I remember that these Cape Cods
were distinctly hard to swallow, delicious though they probably were.
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