Galusha, apparently, was considering the matter.  It was a perceptible interval before he answered.

“I don’t know, Cousin Gussie,” he confessed, after the interval was over.  “Really, I don’t know.  I think I felt, as I told you last night, as if I had encouraged her to believe I should surely sell her shares and—­and that, therefore, I would be responsible for her disappointment.  And I—­well, really, I simply could not face the thought of that disappointment and all it would mean to her.  I could not, indeed, no.  I suppose you consider it quite extraordinary, my feeling that so acutely.  Dear me, I suppose most people would.  But I felt it.  And I should do the same thing again, I know I should.”

“For her, you mean?”

“Yes—­yes, of course, for her.”

“Humph!  Say, Loosh, may I ask you a purely personal question?  Will you promise not to be offended if I do?”

“Eh?  Why, of course, Cousin Gussie.  Of course.  Dear me, ask anything you like.”

“All right.  Loosh, are you in love with Miss Phipps?”

Galusha started so violently as to throw him off his balance upon the fence rail.  He slid forward until his feet touched the ground.  His coat-tails, however, caught upon a projecting knot and the garment remained aloft, a crumpled bundle, between his shoulder blades and the back of his neck.  He was not aware of it.  His face expressed only one emotion, great astonishment.  And as his cousin watched, that expression slowly changed to bewilderment and dawning doubt.

“Well, how about it?” queried Cabot.  “Are you in love with her, Loosh?”

Galusha’s mouth opened.  “Why—­good gracious!” he gasped.  “Dear me—­ah—­ Why—­why, I don’t know.”

The banker had expected almost any sort of reply, except that.

“You don’t know!” he repeated.

“No, I—­I don’t.  I—­I never thought of such a thing.”

Cousin Gussie slowly shook his head.

“Loosh,” he declared, “you are superb; do you realize it?  So you don’t know whether you are in love with her or not.  Well, put it this way:  Would you like to marry her, have her for your wife, live with her for the rest of your days?”

Galusha considered this astounding proposition, but only for the briefest possible moment.  His gentle, dreamy, wistful countenance seemed almost to light up from within.  His answer was given in one breath and as if entirely without conscious volition.

“Oh, very much,” he said, in a low tone.  “Oh, yes, very much.”

The Boston banker had been on the point of laughing when he asked the question.  But he did not laugh.  He whistled instead.  Then he smiled, but it was not a smile of ridicule.

Jumping from the fence rail, he laid a hand on his relative’s shoulder.

“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed.  “Forgive me, old man, will you?  I had no idea you were taking it so seriously.  I . . .  Well, by Jove!”