“No,” she answered him unsmilingly. “But I’m sure I’ll do it again—if I feel like it.”
“I wouldn’t—if I were you. The next man might misunderstand.”
“You didn’t?” The gray eyes were not interrogative, but affirmative.
“Certainly not. I’m not so vain; and, besides, I knew you.”
“That had a great deal to do with it—I mean, the fact that we knew each other so well. I shouldn’t, of course, do such a thing to a perfect stranger.” There was no suggestion of irony, of any kind of humor, in her voice. But he felt uneasy. She proceeded tranquilly: “I suppose any girl would—in the same circumstances—any sensible girl.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” confessed he. What did she mean by “in the same circumstances”? There seemed a chance to penetrate into the mystery, but he would venture no questions. He contented himself with repeating: “No, I never heard of it.”
“Naturally,” observed she. “A girl wouldn’t tell it afterwards—and the man couldn’t—if he were a gentleman. I’m sure if anyone ever asks me whether I ever proposed to a man I’ll say no. And, in a way, it is true. Really, you were the one that proposed to me.” She nodded slowly. “Really, it was you.”
“I?” he exclaimed in derision.
“Yes, you,” she affirmed, meeting his gaze gravely.
His eyes wavered; he confusedly sought and lit a cigarette.