He often gave her little presents for herself, or for her brothers and sisters, and he talked to her so unaffectedly that finally the overawing sense of the great difference between them was brushed away, and she looked upon him more as a generous friend than as a distinguished Senator.
He asked her once how she would like to go to a seminary, thinking all the while how attractive she would be when she came out.
Finally, one evening, he called her to his side.
"Come over here, Jennie," he said, "and stand by me."
She came, and, moved by a sudden impulse, he took her hand.
"Well, Jennie," he said, studying her face in a quizzical, interrogative way, "what do you think of me, anyhow?"
"Oh," she answered, looking consciously away, "I don't know. What makes you ask me that?"
"Oh yes, you do," he returned.
"You have some opinion of me.
Tell me now, what is it?"
"No, I haven't," she said, innocently.
"Oh yes, you have," he went on, pleasantly, interested by her transparent evasiveness.
"You must think something of me. Now, what is it?"
"Do you mean do I like you?" she asked, frankly, looking down at the big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his forehead, and gave an almost lionine cast to his fine face.
"Well, yes," he said, with a sense of disappointment.
She was barren of the art of the coquette.
"Why, of course I like you," she replied, prettily.
"Haven't you ever thought anything else about me?" he went on.
"I think you're very kind," she went on, even more bashfully; she realized now that he was still holding her hand.
"Is that all?" he asked.
"Well," she said, with fluttering eyelids, "isn't that enough?"
He looked at her, and the playful, companionable directness of her answering gaze thrilled him through and through.
He studied her face in silence while she turned and twisted, feeling, but scarcely understanding, the deep import of his scrutiny.
"Well," he said at last, "I think you're a fine girl.
Don't you think I'm a pretty nice man?"
"Yes," said Jennie, promptly.
He leaned back in his chair and laughed at the unconscious drollery of her reply.
She looked at him curiously, and smiled.
"What made you laugh?" she inquired.
"Oh, your answer" he returned. "I really ought not to laugh, though.
You don't appreciate me in the least.
I don't believe you like me at all."
"But I do, though," she replied, earnestly. "I think you're so good."
Her eyes showed very plainly that she felt what she was saying.
"Well," he said, drawing her gently down to him; then, at the same instant, he pressed his lips to her cheek.
"Oh!" she cried, straightening up, at once startled and frightened.
It was a new note in their relationship.
The senatorial quality vanished in an instant.
She recognized in him something that she had not felt before.
He seemed younger, too.
She was a woman to him, and he was playing the part of a lover.
She hesitated, but not knowing just what to do, did nothing at all.
"Well," he said, "did I frighten you?"
She looked at him, but moved by her underlying respect for this great man, she said, with a smile,
"Yes, you did."
"I did it because I like you so much."
She meditated upon this a moment, and then said,
"I think I'd better be going."
"Now then," he pleaded, "are you going to run away because of that?"
"No," she said, moved by a curious feeling of ingratitude; "but I ought to be going.