“Indeed, we had better talk about it,” she said. “But I want to ask you one question first. Has Mr. Dundas the slightest notion that his feeling for you is reciprocated?”
Madge thought over this a moment.
“He has no right to think so,” she said. “I—I have told you what occurred. The whole thing was but a few seconds.”
“There are various ways of spending a few seconds,” said her mother. “But you think you spent them discreetly.”
Madge looked up with a sort of weary patience.
“You mustn’t badger me,” she said. “It is no use. I did my best to conceal it.”
Then the bombardment began.
“Very good; we take it that he does not know. Now let us consider what you are going to do. Do you mean to write a note to him saying, ‘Dear Mr. Dundas, I love you?’ If that is your intention, you had better do it at once. There is no kind of reason for delay. But if it is not your intention, taking that in its broadest sense to mean that you will not make known to him that you love him, dismiss that possibility altogether. Pray give me your whole attention, Madge; nothing that can occur to you in the whole of your life is likely to matter more than this.”
“But I love him,” pleaded Madge, “and he loves me. Is not that enough? Must not something happen?”
“I ask you whether you intend to do anything; that implies now that you, without further action on his part, will show him that you love him. The question just requires ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’”