“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us. Charlotte—Charlotte.”
“Poor girl!”
She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.
“Lucy!”
“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.
“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”
At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.
“What, Cecil?”
“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”
He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.