She interrupted him.
“No!” she cried. “No! don’t mention his name, please! I don’t want to hear his name again just now.”
“For my part,” Somerfield said bitterly, “I never want to hear it again as long as I live!”
There was a short silence. Suddenly she turned towards him.
“Charlie,” she said, “you have asked me to marry you six times.”
“Seven,” he corrected. “I ask you again now—that makes eight.”
“Very well,” she answered, “I accept—on one condition.”
“On any,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with joy. “Penelope, it sounds too good to be true. You can’t be in earnest.”
“I am,” she declared. “I will marry you if you will see that our engagement is announced everywhere tomorrow, and that you do not ask me for anything at all, mind, not even—not anything—for three months’ time, at least. Promise that until then you will not let me hear the sound of the word marriage?”
“I promise,” he said firmly. “Penelope, you mean it? You mean this seriously?”