Prudence gave a little sigh, and sat perfectly still, staring with amazed eyes at the neglected balls on the green cloth. Oddly, the thought which struck her at the moment was that it was unnecessary to break off in the middle of a game to ask her that. There was no need to make opportunities; they were thrust at him.
“Let me think,” she said. “Give me time. You—startled me.”
“But you knew that I meant to ask you that question?” He took her hand again and pressed it gently. “When you sent that letter, wasn’t it intended for permission to speak? I interpreted it that way.”
“I—don’t—know.” She was still for a moment; then she turned to him and looked him uncertainly in the eyes. “I was very miserable when I wrote that letter. Yes; I suppose that was what I meant—then.”
She broke off, and her gaze wandered away and came to rest again on the balls.
“It’s silly of me,” she said, speaking very low. “I feel a little afraid.”
“Just shyness,” he said reassuringly, stroking the hand which lay limply in his. “I am old for you; but you will find me the more gentle, possibly the more understanding, on that account. My darling, I love you very dearly. You are so young—you don’t know yet what love is. I did not know either until recently. I come to it rather late. But my feeling for you is very deep. Prudence, my dear, I want you. I love you. If you give yourself to me I will do everything in my power to make your life happy. Will you marry me, dear?”
It seemed to Prudence that there was only one possible answer. She had understood when she invited him to come down the significance of what she did. She had no right to encourage him to hope and then fail in her part. He was too good a man to play with. She kept her face averted while she answered him, staring fixedly at the shining balls, lying where her last stroke had left them placed conveniently, she realised with grim appreciation of her mistake, for him to score off.
“I want to be quite frank with you,” she said, her breathing fast through sheer nervousness, an earnest expression on her face, which he thought very modest and gentle. “I don’t love you, Mr Morgan,—not in that way—not, I mean, as you love me. I’ve thought—I should like to marry you. I think that still—only I’m afraid sometimes,—afraid that you’ll find me disappointing.”
He placed his arm very gently round her shoulders and held her so without attempting any warmer caress. He smiled into her troubled eyes.