“Lady Ver said no husband could do that—the fact of there being one kept your heart quite quiet, and often made you yawn—but she said it was not necessary, as long as you could make theirs, so that they would do all you asked.”
“Then do women’s hearts never beat—did she tell you?”
“Of course they beat! How simple you are for thirty years old. They beat constantly for—oh—for people who are not husbands.”
“That is the result of your observations, is it? You are probably right, and I am a fool.”
“Some one said at lunch yesterday that a beautiful lady in Paris had her heart beating for you,” I said, looking at him again.
He changed—so very little, it was not a start, or a wince even—just enough for me to know he felt what I said.
“People are too kind,” he said. “But we have got no nearer the point. When will you marry me?”
“I shall marry you—never, Mr. Carruthers,” I said, “unless I get into an old maid soon, and no one else asks me. Then if you go on your knees I may put out the tip of my finger, perhaps!” and I moved towards the door, making him a sweeping and polite curtsey.
He rushed after me.
“Evangeline!” he exclaimed, “I am not a violent man as a rule, indeed I am rather cool, but you would drive any one perfectly mad. Some day some one will strangle you—Witch!”