“Then have it,” he said. “Have it for one of your own.”
She crept out of the window recess and looked up at him. He was leaning forward to her, smiling, self-conscious, tentative, and eager. She thought it best to laugh it off.
“I was only talking like a child, from the imagination,” she said.
“I quite understand that,” he replied deliberately. “But I am speaking what I mean—”
She did not answer, but looked at him reproachfully. He was smiling and smirking broadly at her.
“Won’t you marry me, and come and have this garret for your own?” He spoke as if he were offering her a chocolate. He smiled with curious uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” she said vaguely.
His smile broadened.
“Well now,” he said, “make up your mind. I’m not good at talking about love, you know. But I think I’m pretty good at feeling it, you know. I want you to come here and be happy: with me.” He added the two last words as a sort of sly post-scriptum, and as if to commit himself finally.
“But I’ve never thought about it,” she said, rapidly cogitating.