“On second thoughts, Lydia, this is neither the proper time nor place for an important communication. Excuse me for having taken you out of your way for nothing.”
“I do not like this, Lucian. Important communications—in this case—corrupt good manners. If your intended speech is a sensible one, the present is as good a time, and Bedford Square as good a place, as you are likely to find for it. If it is otherwise, confess that you have decided to leave it unsaid. But do not postpone it. Reticence is always an error—even on the treasury bench. It is doubly erroneous in dealing with me; for I have a constitutional antipathy to it.”
“Yes,” he said, hurriedly; “but give me one moment—until the policeman has passed.”
The policeman went leisurely by, striking the flags with his heels, and slapping his palm with a white glove.
“The fact is, Lydia, that—I feel great difficulty—”
“What is the matter?” said Lydia, after waiting in vain for further particulars. “You have broken down twice in a speech.” There was a pause. Then she looked at him quickly, and added, incredulously, “Are you going to get married? Is that the secret that ties your practised tongue?”
“Not unless you take part in the ceremony.”
“Very gallant; and in a vein of humor that is new in my experience of you. But what have you to tell me, Lucian? Frankly, your hesitation is becoming ridiculous.”
“You have certainly not made matters easier for me, Lydia. Perhaps you have a womanly intuition of my purpose, and are intentionally discouraging me.”
“Not the least. I am not good at speculations of that sort. On my word, if you do not confess quickly, I will hurry away to the museum.”