Mildred drank in the beauty of the scenes, and wished that it were decorous for women to propose.
Under the influence of sweet surroundings, Mildred at last said pointedly: “Is it so that more people get engaged in winter than in summer?”
She blushed as she spoke. It was unmaidenly, but he was such a dear gump. Now he would declare himself. But she did not know the capabilities for self-repression of her two-year admirer.
He said to himself: “What a slip! What a delightful slip! If I were unprincipled I would take advantage of it and propose, but I would bitterly reproach myself forever, whatever her answer was.”
So he said in as matter-of-fact tone as he could master when his heart was beating his ribs like a frightened cageling: “I really can’t answer offhand, but I’ll look it up for you.”
“Do. Write a letter to the newspaper.”
Her tones were as musical as ever, but Littlewood thought he detected a sarcastic ring in them, and he thanked his stars that he had not yielded to his natural desire to propose at such an inauspicious time.
“What was that important thing you wanted to say?” asked Miss Farrington, after several minutes of silence, save for the hoofs and the runners and the bells.
“Oh, it wasn’t of any importance! I mean it will keep. I—er—I was thinking of something else.”