“Oh, I think I have an idea now,” she murmured, with a significant smile. “I have guessed.”
“You have?” he replied, in a tone of great relief. “And—and, may I venture to hope?”
“I really cannot tell you. But I see no reason why you should not,” she returned reassuringly.
“Madeline”—now moving his chair a whole foot nearer, and suddenly taking her hand—“you have made me the happiest of men!”
“I don’t think I quite understand you,” she replied, struggling to withdraw her fingers, and feeling desperately uncomfortable.
“Then I must speak out more plainly. I want you to promise to be my wife.”
For a second she stared at him as if she could not credit her ears. Then she suddenly wrenched her fingers away, sprang to her feet, and stood facing him with crimson cheeks.
“What do you mean? Are you—mad?” she asked sharply.
“Mad?—no!” replied her suitor, both amazed and affronted. “One would think I was a dangerous lunatic, the way you behave. I am quite sane, and in deadly earnest. I have your father’s good wishes, Rachel’s good wishes——”
“My father’s good wishes!” she interrupted, her mind in a perfect tumult at this totally unlooked-for dilemma.