“Are you proposing to me?” she asked, wishing mercifully to cut him short.
“Well, yes, I am,” he answered, with a deep sigh. “Ah, don’t be cruel to me. You know that I love you. I’m quite well off: I can give you a fairly comfortable time of it.”
“Yes, but they say you have led a very wild life,” she told him. “You said yourself that you drank.”
“I’ve sown my wild oats, little woman,” he sighed.
“But drink is such a dreadful thing,” she murmured. “I wonder your conscience hasn’t pricked you. Or are you one of those people who have no conscience, only a religion?”
Without waiting to reply he returned to the speech which he had memorized, and drew a picture of his English home: the snow on the ground at Noël, the bells of the little church ringing, the Yule log, and his tenants singing carols to them as they dined in the great hall. It reminded Muriel of a Christmas-card—something with sparkling stuff powdered over it, and “Hark, the herald angels sing” printed in the corner.
Lord Barthampton, however, was very much touched by his own eloquence; and, coming close to her, he held out his hands. “Will you?” he said, brokenly.
“I must have time to think,” she answered. “This is so sudden.” Then, with deep seriousness, she added: “Yes, I want to think it over.”
“Well, I’m going off to the Fayoum tomorrow to shoot,” he told her. “May I come for my answer in three days from now?”
“Very well,” she replied.