“I did not consider. There are difficulties. Perhaps she would not receive me, and through her mother I will not act. Besides, if I was asked why I had come forward, it would not be easy to explain, as it would hardly do to mention Una. And I haven’t got any clothes, so I can’t go anywhere to meet her.”
Lucian stated these various difficulties, with exactly the same tone of voice for all.
“Will you write?” said Sylvester.
“I don’t think that that’s quite the right thing. If I—insulted her, face to face—face to face I must ask her pardon. No, you know them. I suppose you can go and call, and ask her when I may come.”
“I suppose I could,” said poor Sylvester, with a pang. “Yes—I will.”
“Thank you. But understand that it is my object to make known that I put myself at her disposal. It is not a case for concealing a refusal. Every one must know that I make the offer.”
Sylvester gave a nervous laugh. Lucian’s sense of his own importance to Amethyst seemed ludicrously out of proportion to the reality. He thought of Sir Richard Grattan, and Prince Pontresina, and Lord Broadstairs, and of the various other men, who would have felt flattered by having it supposed that they had approached near enough to the beauty to propose to her.
“She has many offers,” he said, rather dryly; “I think you must be prepared for such a possibility.”
“Yes,” said Lucian. “But it won’t be worse than it has been. And if—”
He did not finish the sentence, but over the beautiful face which some people called statuesque, and others wooden, came, for once, a flush and a change, and Sylvester thought that Sir Richard might suffer in comparison.