Sir Charles took out an irritating little notebook of red leather, the sort of thing that is advertised when lost as 'of no value to anyone but the owner.' It was full of mysterious little marks and unintelligible little notes. He put down, in cabalistic signs, 'Hyacinth's dinner, eight o'clock.' He enjoyed writing her name, even in hieroglyphics.
CHAPTER V
A Proposal
'I say, Eugenia.'
'Well, Cecil?'
'Look here, Eugenia.'
'What is it, Cecil?'
'Will you marry me?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Will you many me, Eugenia?'