"I wonder whether you could guess?" he said, as he thought of her father's words, his assertion that Stafford was to be his son-in-law. "I suppose you must."
Her gaze was as steady as his, but her lips quivered slightly.
"I would rather you should tell me than that I should I guess," she said in a low voice. "I might be wrong."
He was not in a condition to notice the significance of her last words, and he went on with a kind of desperation.
"I brought you here into the garden, Miss Falconer, to ask you if you'd be my wife."
They had stopped just within the radius of an electric light, held aloft by a grinning satyr, and Stafford saw her face grow paler and paler in the seconds that followed the momentous question. He could see her bosom heaving under the half-open fur cloak, felt her hand close for an instant on his arm.
"Do you wish me to say 'Yes'?" she asked in a low voice.
The red flooded Stafford's face for a moment, and his eyes fell under her fixed regard.
"What answer does one generally hope for when one puts such a question?" he said, trying to smile. "I want you to be my wife, and I hope, with all my heart, that you will say 'Yes.'"
"'With all your heart,'" she echoed, slowly, almost inaudibly. "'With all your heart.' With all mine, I answer 'Yes.'"