“That river’s the very devil for getting fellows into messes of this kind. The rushes and the whispering-trees and the soft murmur of the water, don’t you know—and the champagne in the hamper—all this I suppose combines to work it. Now, did you ever propose to her in definite terms?”
“N-no. Once it struck me she thought I had. It was one evening at a dance. We were sitting out in a corner of the lawn—and the river and the moonlight on the water—”
“And the champagne,” murmured Fordham. “No; it was sparkling Burgundy. But don’t chaff, old man. Well, I hadn’t really said anything definite. But, you know, a fellow is apt to make rather a fool of himself on such occasions, isn’t he?”
“Oh, very. Now how long was this—this evening when you hadn’t really said anything definite—before we came abroad together?”
“About a month or six weeks.”
“And of course you have corresponded ever since?”
“Up till the time I—er—you know—”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand. Well now, have you said—written, rather—anything definite in the course of that correspondence?”
“N-no. I don’t think I can have.”
“Would you mind allowing me to judge?”