He fretted for some hours, and then decided to talk it over with the girl herself. He did not care to let Red Mick think that the anonymous letter had stopped the prosecution; at the same time, he was determined to do nothing that would cause Miss Grant the least annoyance. He opened the discussion that evening while strolling about the garden.
“About this business of Red Mick’s,” he said. “I am rather worried.”
“Why?”
“Well, the trouble is this: I’ve got an anonymous letter from Red Mick or some of his people, saying that they are going to give you and me a great showing-up about being hidden in the tree together.”
“What can they say?” she asked, uncomprehendingly.
“Well, of course, they will talk about our being in the tree together—and—all that kind of thing, you know. They will make things as unpleasant for us as they can. They may want you to give evidence, and all that sort of thing—and I thought, perhaps you mightn’t like it.”
She froze into dignity at once. “I certainly shouldn’t like it,” she said. “About being in the tree, that does not matter, of course, but I hope you will keep my name out of the affair altogether. I must ask you to do that for me.”
Then he rushed on his fate. Many a time he had pictured how he would wait till they were alone together in the garden on some glorious moonlit night, and he would take her hand, and tell her how much he loved her; and now, seeing the girl standing before him flushed with insulted dignity, he suddenly found himself gasping out, in what seemed somebody’s else’s voice, “Couldn’t we—look here, Miss Grant, won’t you be engaged to me? Then it won’t matter what they say.”
He tried to take her hand, but she drew back, white to the lips.
“No, no; let me go; let me go,” she said. Then the colour came back to her face, and she drew herself up, and spoke slowly and cuttingly: