“Oh no,” Michael said, “your hair is beautiful. Good-bye, and thank you.”
As the old lady went down the dusty Temple stairs she stamped a small foot angrily on the worn oak.
“Fool!” she said, “how could you? Hateful, shameless, unwomanly! And it’s all for nothing, too. He’ll never do it. It’s too mad!”
Michael went straight to Sylvia, and told his tale.
“And I felt I couldn’t,” he said; “she is the daintiest, sweetest little old lady. I couldn’t marry her and see her every day and live in the hope of her death.”
“I don’t see why not,” Sylvia said, a little coldly. “She wouldn’t die any sooner because you married her, and, anyway, she can’t have long to live.”
The words were almost those of the little old lady herself. Yet—or perhaps for that very reason—they jarred on Michael’s mood. He alleged business, and cut short his call.
Next day Miss Thrale called again. Mr Wood was sorry to have given her so much trouble. He had decided that the idea was too wild, and must be abandoned.
“Is it because I am too old?” said the old lady wistfully; “would you marry me if I were young?”
“Upon my word, I believe I would,” Michael surprised himself by saying. That it was not the answer Miss Thrale expected was evident from her smile of sudden amusement.