"You know what it is, right enough." He glowered at her hardily, being desperate now and beyond shame.
"Do 'I?" But she blenched, meeting his eyes as be continued to nod.
"Yes, you do," persisted he. "I wants to marry ye, one of these days; and you can't round on me, either, for outin' with it; for 'twas your own suggestion."
"Oh, you silly boy!" Fancy reproved him, while conscious of a highly delicious thrill and an equally delicious fear. ("O, youth, youth! and the wonder of first love!") She cast about for escape, and forced a laugh. "Do you know, you're the very first as has ever proposed to me."
"I was thinkin' as much," said the unflattering Palmerston. "Come to that, you was the first as ever offered marriage to me."
"But I didn't! I mean," urged Fancy, "it was only in joke."
"Joke or not," said Palmerston, "you can't deny it." Suddenly weakening, he let slip his advantage. "But I wouldn' wish to marry one that despised me," he declared. "I had enough o' bein' despised—in the Workhouse."
"I never said I despised you, Pammy," Fancy protested.
"Yes, you did; or in so many words—'Unmanly,' you said."
"But that was about writing." She opened her eyes wide. "You don't mean to tell me that's the trouble? . . . What have you been writing?"