"Ma," he replied.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, looking round with a wild idea of making a dart for liberty.
"Ma," he repeated, "and it's not of the slightest use for you to try to side-step. You're cornered." He had both my hands now and was looking at me at arm's length. "So you are afraid to marry me for fear people—your friends—will say that—I walked right into the trap?"
I hung my head and couldn't keep from trembling, I was so ashamed.
"And if it wasn't for that you'd accept my 'proposition'—now—wouldn't you?"
"I would not," I replied, wrenching myself away with an effort that put my hair topsy-turvy—it always does try to come down if I make a sudden movement, and I washed it only yesterday.
"What gorgeous hair you have!" he said. "Sometimes I've caught a glimpse of it just as I was entering a room—and I've had to retreat and compose myself to make a fresh try."
"You've been talking to your mother!" I exclaimed—I'd been casting about for an explanation of all this sudden shrewdness of his in ways feminine.
"I have," said he. "It's as important to her as to me that you don't escape."
"And she told you that I was in love with you!" I tried to put a little—not too much—scorn into the "you."