“And so, although the sun’s shining, I’m to dive into the subway of marriage, in case one day it may rain.”
“At least there’s a station here,” said Bagot doggedly.
“In other words, I mayn’t get another chance. Go on. Say it right out. You’ve been hanging around, trying to hand me the statement for a quarter of an hour.”
Willoughby gasped.
“You wicked, ungrateful child.” He raised his eyes to heaven. “For sheer, bare-faced perversion, that breaks the tape. Never mind. I’m through, I am. I’ve done my best and I’m through. As some poetaster has said, ‘You can lead a girl to the altar, but you can’t make her think.’ Or is that out of Paradise Lost?”
With that, he seated himself upon the table and felt for a match. He was really ridiculously relieved.
Spring gave a little laugh.
“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.”
The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how to lose.
As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to burst into tears.