"Oh, Wallie! Yes, he was pretty keen on getting here but I rather fancy he's forgotten about that dance, you know."
"What makes you say that? What mischief are you two brewing?"
"Ah—it's Wallie's secret, you know,—that is, his part of it is—I say, here 's the very spot."
They had made the turn behind the stairs, where a punch bowl stood; the space immediately behind the stairs being too low in which to stand comfortably upright, a mass of foliage was banked in a half circle, outside of which the stand and punch bowl were placed; inside, a thoughtful hostess had arranged a tête-à-tête, quite unnoticeable from without. Whitby's attention had been drawn to it by the couple who had emerged upon their approach, the girl radiant and the man walking on air, of which details Whitby was entirely oblivious. Margaret was more observing and she looked after Wallie with a dawning look of understanding and then at Whitby with a quick glance of apprehension. There was no time to protest, even if she would, as Whitby had led her behind the leafy screen before she fully realized the import of his action.
Like many slow starters, Whitby, when once in movement, set a rapid pace. He came to the point now with promptitude:
"Miss McAllister, I arrived late because I called on your father before coming here, to ask his permission to address you. I must say he rather dashed my hopes, you know. He does n't think I 'm such a bad sort—he does n't object in the least—but he seemed to fancy his daughter Margaret would. I—I hope he is mistaken."
She turned to him a face in which the eyes were slowly filling with tears, nor did she remove the hand upon which his rested, on the curving back of the seat. It was not her first proposal, by several, but there was a vibrating earnestness, an unexpected tenderness in this big, slow Englishman which told her she was going to hurt him seriously when she spoke. And she did not want to hurt him; with all her heart and soul she wished she did not have to hurt him.
"I 'm not worthy of you, Margaret. I don't think any man is worthy of a good woman, and I 'm just an ordinary man. But I 'll be worthy of you, from to-night.—and that whether you say yes or no.
"You know I love you. You must know I left London and came over here to follow you. But you don't know how much I care for you—and I can't tell you. I 'm a duffer at this sort of game—like everything else—I never did it before—and 'pon my word, I don't know how. But if I could say what I feel, then perhaps, you might know better. What is it to be, Margaret? Wait a bit! If you feel doubtful, I 'll wait as long as you want me to. But—but—I 'm afraid it's no go." He sat looking dumbly at her, hoping for some sign of encouragement, but there was no misreading the answer in her face.
It was a long minute before she spoke. She was unnerved by the hysterical desire to put her arms around him and soothe him as she might a hurt child. Something of her embarrassment was conveyed to him and with the wish to save her the pain of refusing in words he started as if to rise. She stopped him with a gesture.