“My dear, loving little wife.”
“Oh, Mr. Williams!”
“Call me Horace.”
Elsie very nearly giggled. She felt sure that it would be quite impossible ever to call Mr. Williams Horace.
“Let’s sit down,” she suggested feebly.
They found two little iron chairs, and Mr. Williams selected them regardless of their proximity to the public path.
When they sat down, Elsie, really giddy, leant back, but Mr. Williams bent forward, not looking at her, and poking his stick, which was between his knees, into the grass at their feet.
“Of course, there is a certain difference in our ages,” he said, speaking very carefully, “but I do not consider that that would offer any very insuperable objection to a—a happy married life. And I shall do my utmost to make you happy, Elsie. My house is sadly in want of a mistress, and I shall look to you to make it bright again. You will have a servant, of course, and I will make you an allowance for the housekeeping, and, of course, I need hardly say that my dear little wife will look to me for everything that concerns her own expenditure.”
He glanced at her as though expecting her to be dazzled, as indeed she was.
It occurred to neither of them that Elsie’s acceptance of his proposal was being tacitly taken for granted without a word from herself. She wondered if he would mention Mrs. Williams, but he did not do so.