All I hoped was that he did not intend to bore me with frequent repetitions of this call. I had better use for my evenings than such waste of time as chatting with him. I cast about me for some suitable excuse to shut off future inflictions, and at last hit upon one that I thought might answer.
“I suppose I must sacrifice myself for a while,” I said cheerfully; “I have had a deal of business swoop down upon me, and in order to dispatch it, must shut myself up for a time, and forego the joys of society.”
Instantly his old embarrassment came back upon him, as a small boy’s enemy—supposed to be vanquished—darts around the corner, and renews the attack.
He started to go; came back; returned to the door; again came back; colored vividly—looked at me imploringly. And as I looked at him my anger, my coldness—all vanished, and I exclaimed:
“Randolph Chance, why don’t you say it!”
“Some things are awfully hard to say. I can write—— Oh Constance! you might have mercy on me!”
“Well,” I said, laughing—I could almost see the light upon my face—“I suppose you want me to marry you.”
“You can’t get away now!” he cried, a second later.
The walls heard a much-smothered voice—
“I don’t want to.”