"You're not tired of me?" queried Nick.
"No."
"If I were to die to-morrow for instance—and there's no telling, you know, Muriel,—you'd be a little sorry?"
Again, though scarcely aware of it, she resented the question. "Why do you ask me that? Of course I should be sorry."
"Of course," acquiesced Nick. "But all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't bring me back again. That's the worst of being mortal. You can't dance at your own funeral."
"What do you mean?" There was a note of exasperation in Muriel's voice. She saw that he had an object in view, but his method of attaining it was too tortuous for her straightforward understanding.
He explained himself with much patience. His mood had so completely changed that she could barely recall to mind the vision that had so appalled her but a few minutes before.
"What I mean is that it's infernal to think that some one may be shedding precious tears on your grave and you not there to see. I've often wondered if one could get a ticket of leave for such an occasion." He smiled down at her with baffling directness. "I should value those tears unspeakably," he said.
Muriel made a slight movement of impatience. The discussion seemed to her inconsequent and unprofitable.
Nick began to enumerate his points. "You're not tired of me—though I see I'm boring you hideously; put up with it a little longer, I've nearly finished—and you'd shed quite a respectable number of tears if I were to die young. Yes, I am young though as ugly as Satan. I believe you think I'm some sort of connection, don't you? Is that why you don't want to marry me?"