Her heart sank. It was surely something about Vincent—a reproof, an accusation, perhaps dismissal. She led the way into the tiny parlour, black as a dungeon, and with barred windows, too; took off her apron and threw it, a sodden bundle, out into the hall. Then she sat down defiantly before him.
"Well?" she demanded.
Eddie waited for a moment.
"I’ve been thinking," he said at last. "About you. A lot. Especially last night. If you’ve got time to spare, and if you’ll listen——”
"Go ahead! I’m listening."
She was still defiant, because she expected a rebuke, and she was well aware that there was quite enough cause in her conduct to merit severe reproofs. He was so serious, so disturbed, that she believed him to be disappointed in her, and she resented that.
"Well?" she said again.
"It’s this," he said. "I—I wish I could make you believe that I’m not selfish in this. I wish I had some way of making you believe that I’m really thinking of you, first of all. You seem so—solitary, so—unprotected. Of course, I know you’re very self-reliant, and all that, but still, you’re only a young girl, after all."
"I can take care of myself," she said sullenly. "I suppose you mean you don’t like the way I’ve been acting. Well, I——”
"No!" he cried impatiently. "What nonsense! No! What I mean is—I think you’d better marry me."