“Very,” assented Carrie at once.  “About the best I ever heard.”

And she went on laughing.

“And I suppose,” went on Max, unable to hide his annoyance, “that if I were to tell you it was not a joke at all, but that I spoke in downright earnest, you would laugh still more?”

“Well, I think I should.”

“Well, laugh away, then.  I was in earnest.  I meant what I said.  I was idiot enough to suppose you might find marrying me a better alternative than wandering about without any home.  Extraordinary, wasn’t it?”

“Well,” answered Carrie, subduing her mirth a little and speaking in that deep-toned voice she unconsciously used when she was moved—­the voice which Max found in itself so moving—­“I should say it was extraordinary, if I didn’t know you.”

“If you didn’t know me for an idiot, I suppose you mean,” said Max, coldly, with much irritation.

“Not quite that,” replied she, in the same tone as before.  “I meant if I hadn’t known you to be one of those good-natured people who speak before they think.”

Max sat up angrily.

“I have not spoken without thinking,” said he, quickly.  “I have done nothing but think of you ever since I first saw you; and my asking you to marry me is the outcome of my thinking.”

“Well, if I were you, I should think to better purpose than that.”

Her tone was rather puzzling to Max.  There was mockery in it; but there was something more.  He came to the conclusion, after a moment’s consideration of it, and of the little that he could see of her face, that she felt more than she chose to show.  So he put his arm around her and caught one of her hands.

“Look here, Carrie,” said he in a whisper.  “I understand you.  I know how you feel.  I know you think it’s neither decent nor wise to ask a girl to be your wife when you’ve only seen her twice.  But just consider the circumstances.  If I don’t get you to say what I want you to say now, I shall lose sight of you to-night and never see you again.  Now, I couldn’t bear that—­I couldn’t, Carrie.  I never saw a girl like you; I never met one who made me feel as you make me feel.  And you like me, too.  You wouldn’t have troubled yourself about my going to the wharf if you hadn’t cared.  It’s no use denying that you like me.”

Carrie turned upon him with energy.

“Well, I don’t deny it, if you care to hear that,” said she, quickly.  “I do like you.  How could I help it?  I liked you the moment I first saw you; I shouldn’t have spoken to you if I hadn’t; I should have been afraid.  But what difference does that make?  Do you think I’m a fool?  Do you think I don’t know that this feeling you have—­and I believe in it, mind—­is just because I’m a new sensation to you, who are a spoiled child—­nothing more nor less.  Oh, don’t let’s talk about it; it’s silly.”

She had wrenched herself impatiently away from him, and now sat upright, frowning and looking straight in front of her as before.