"Meaning now?" enquired the artist, resting on his sculls, for they were under the shadow of the bridge.
"I can't see your face distinctly," answered Fanny. "So much depends on the expression. But I think—"
"What do you think? That it's awfully amusing of me to offer to be married as a sacrifice to your spite?"
"It's amusing anyway."
"A formal proposal would be, you mean?" asked Lawrence. Then he laughed oddly.
"I hate formality," answered Fanny. "That is, in earnest, you know. It's so disgusting when a man comes with his gloves buttoned and sits on the edge of a chair and says—"
"And says what?"
"Oh—you know the sort of thing. You must have done it scores of times."
"What? Proposed and been refused? You're complimentary, at all events. I've a great mind to let you be the first, just—well—how shall I say? Just to associate you with a novel sensation."
"I might disappoint you," said Fanny, demurely. "I told you so before. Just think, if I were to say 'yes,' you'd be most dreadfully caught. You'd have to eat humble pie and beg off, and say that you hadn't meant it."