“Still, you’re not old enough to be my father,” she added, encouragingly.
In the afternoon they went to St. Mary’s Walks and sat upon a bench by the Cherwell. Close at hand a Sabbath bell chimed a golden monotone; Philip took Sylvia’s hand and looked right into her face, as he always did when he was not wearing his glasses:
“Little delightful thing, if you won’t let me take you away from that inferno of Earl’s Court, will you marry me? Not at once, because it wouldn’t be fair to you and it wouldn’t be fair to myself. I’m going to make a suggestion that will make you laugh, but it is quite a serious suggestion. I want you to go to school.”
Sylvia drew back and stared at him over her shoulder.
“To school?” she echoed. “But I’m sixteen.”
“Lots of girls—most girls in the position I want you to take—are still at school then. Only a year, dear child, and then if you will have me, we’ll get married. I don’t think you’d be bored down in Hampshire. I have thousands of books and you shall read them all. Don’t get into your head that I’m asking you to marry me because I’m sorry for you—”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Sylvia interrupted, sharply.
“I know there’s not, and I want you terribly. You fascinate me to an extent I never could have thought possible for any woman. I really haven’t cared much about women; they always seemed in the way. I do believe you would be happy with me. We’ll travel to the East together. You shall visit Japan and Turkey. I love you so much, Sylvia. Tell me, don’t you love me a little?”
“I like you very much indeed,” she answered, gently. “Oh, very, very, very much. Perhaps I love you. I don’t think I love you, because if I loved you I think my heart would beat much faster when you asked me to marry you, and it isn’t beating at all. Feel.”
She put his hand upon her heart.