He was tallish, well-made, and of middle age. His expression was a trifle dogged, and for a man who came love-making he looked less prepossessing than he himself might have wished.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. Thistlewood,’ said the girl, in a tone which a sensitive man might have thought purposely defensive.
‘Is it yes or no to-day, Bertha?’ asked Mr. Thistlewood.
‘It has always been no,’ she answered, looking down.
‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘I’m perfectly well aware of that. It always has been no up till now, but that’s no reason why it should be no to-day. And if it’s no to-day that’s no reason why it should be no again this day three months. Maids change their minds, my dear.’
‘It is a pity you should waste your time, Mr. Thistlewood,’ said Bertha, still looking down.
‘As for wasting my time,’ returned John Thistle-wood, ‘that’s a thing as few can charge me with as a general rule. And in this particular case, you see, I can’t help myself. The day I see you married I shall make up my mind to leave you alone until such time as you might happen to be a widow, and if that should come to pass I should reckon myself free to come again.’
‘It has always been no,’ said Bertha. ‘It is no to-day. It will always be no.’
The words in themselves were sufficiently decisive, and the voice, though it had something soft and regretful in it, sounded almost as final as the words.
‘Let’s look at it a bit, my dear,’ said John Thistle-wood, grasping in both hands the thick walking-stick he carried, and pressing it firmly against his thighs as he leaned a little forward and looked down upon her. ‘Why is it no? And if it’s no again to-day, why is it always going to be no?’