"Then, if"—she spoke hurriedly, and with evident embarrassment—"if you won't tell me that way, won't you please tell me another? Could you—would you— Am I any like that girl, Mr. Estey?"
Mr. Donald Estey was guilty of an actual gasp of dismay. In a whirl of vexation at the situation in which he found himself, he groped blindly for a safe way out. Of course young women (young women such as he knew) did not really propose to one; but was it possible that that was exactly what this somewhat remarkable young widow was doing? It seemed incredible. And yet—
"Am I, Mr. Estey? Or do you think I could—learn?"
"Why, er—er—"
"I mean, would you—could you marry—me?"
Every vestige of self-control slipped from the tortured man like a garment. Conscious only of an insane desire to flee from this wretched woman who was about to march him to the altar willy-nilly, he quite jerked his arm free.
"Well, really, Mrs. Darling, I—I—"
"You wouldn't, I can see you wouldn't!" There was a heartbroken little sob in her voice.
"But—but, Mrs. Darling! Oh, hang it all! What a perfectly preposterous situation!" he stormed wrathfully. "I don't want—to marry anybody. I tell you I'm not a marrying man! I—" He stopped short at the astounding change that had come to the little woman opposite.
She was staring into his face with a growing terror that suddenly, at its height, broke into a gale of hysterical laughter. She covered her face with her hands and dropped into the chair behind her.