This was an awkward rencontre. Daisy had quite sufficient mental excitement with the interview to which she was proceeding. She had not calculated upon this addition to it, and answered him vaguely and unsatisfactorily.
"I have been very much occupied of late," said she. "The winter season is now coming upon us, you see, and I have scarcely any time to myself."
"It would have taken very little time to write yes or no," said poor John; "and if you knew the importance I attach to the receipt of one of those two words from you, I think you would have endeavoured to let me know my fate. Will you let me offer you my arm?"
"No--no, thanks," said Daisy, drawing back.
"You--you don't like to be seen with me, perhaps, in the street?" asked John, with a bitter tone in his voice.
"No, not that at all; only people don't take arms nowadays, don't you know?"
"Don't they?" said John, still bitterly. "I beg your pardon; you must excuse my want of breeding. I don't mix except among people in my own station. I--I didn't mean that," he added hurriedly, as he saw her face flush; "I didn't mean anything to offend you; but I have scarcely been myself, I think, for the last few days."
"You have done no harm," said Daisy, gently, pitying the look of misery on his face.
"Have I done any good?" he asked; "you cannot fail to understand me. If you knew how I suffer, you would keep me no longer in suspense."
"I did not pretend to misunderstand you," said the girl. "You are waiting for my answer to the proposition you made to me when you called at my lodging the other day."