"I am so thankful to hear you say that," she said, drawing a deep breath.
"Shall I go on?" said Cheveril.
She hesitated; and very quietly he held out his hand to her.
"In the capacity of a friend," he said gravely.
And Evelyn Harford put her hand into his with the confidence of a child. It was strange to feel her prejudice against this man evaporate at a touch. It made her oddly unsure of herself. He was the last person in the world to whom she would have voluntarily turned for help.
"Don't be startled by what I am going to say," Cheveril said. "It may strike you as an eccentric suggestion, but there is nothing in it to alarm you. Young Willowby tells me that it will take him two years to make a home for you, and meanwhile your life is to be made a martyrdom on my account. Will you put your freedom in my hands for that two years? In other words, will you consider yourself engaged to me for just so long as his absence lasts? It will save you endless trouble and discomfort, and harm no one. When Willowby comes back, I shall hand you over to him, and your happiness will be secured. Think it over, and don't be scared. You will find me quite easy to manage. In any case, I am a friend you can trust, remember, even though I have got the face of a baboon."
So, with absolute quietness, he made his proposal; and Evelyn, amazed and incredulous, heard him out in silence. At his last words she gave a quick laugh that sounded almost hysterical.
"Oh, don't," she said—"don't! You make me feel so ashamed."
Cheveril's face was suddenly quizzical.
"There is nothing to be ashamed of," he said. "I take all the responsibility, and it would give me very great pleasure to help you."