"If it were to ask me to lunch," she said, composedly threading her needle, "I am sorry, but I can't come. I have to make twenty-five of these bows and I am rather slow at it."
"Luncheon might have followed as an after-thought," he replied. "My real mission was to suggest that you should marry me."
Lady Anne's fingers paused for a moment in the air. She sat quite still. Her eyes were half closed. There was a curious little quiver at her heart, a little throb in her ears. On the whole, however, she kept her self-control marvelously.
"Whatever put that into your head?" she inquired, going on with her work.
He hesitated. It was in his mind to tell her of that evening at Clonarty, to speak of it, to recall that one wave of emotion on which, indeed, they might have floated into a completer understanding. He looked at her steadfastly. She was very graceful, very good to look upon. She sat upright in her poor cane chair, bending over her foolish little task. But he missed any inspiration which might have guided his tongue. She looked so thoroughly self-possessed, so splendidly superior to circumstances.
"Isn't it natural?" he asked. "You and I were always good friends. We have come together here and we are both a little lonely. I have never known any one else in the world, Anne," he continued, "with whom I have been able to think of marriage with more—more content. One might live quite a pleasant life here. We should not be paupers. At any rate, there would be no reason for you to sit in this stuffy room making bows, or to go and write Madame Christophor's letters."
"Is that all?"
Again he was tempted. For a single moment she had raised her eyes and he had fancied that in that swift upward glance he had seen the light of an almost eager questioning, an almost pathetic search. He bent towards her, but she refused obstinately to look at him again.
"Dear Anne," he said, "I have always been fond of you."
Again her fingers were idle. An idea seemed to have occurred to her.
She asked him a question.