There was an expression of the most ungrateful disgust on his fair, Puritan sort of face as he turned it for a moment from me to that of the bubbling-over music-hall artiste who was his hostess.
"None of these people are fit," he declared resentfully, "to associate with you."
"You forget that plenty of people might not think I was fit to associate with! A girl who is arrested for jewel robbery!"
"Your own fault, Miss Lovelace, if I may say so! If you hadn't been here with Miss Million"—another ungrateful glance—"this suspicion wouldn't have touched you."
"If I hadn't brought Miss Million here, it wouldn't have touched her!"
"That has nothing to do with it," he said quite fretfully. Men generally are fretful, I notice, when women score a point in common sense.
It's so unexpected.
"The question still is—Are you going to make me the happiest man in the world by marrying me?"
It's odd what a difference there is between one's first proposal of marriage—and one's second!
Yes! Even if they are from the same man, as mine were. The first time is much the better.