"Really?" said the Boy. "May I ask when he proposed?"
"He has not proposed, Boy."
The Boy produced his pocket-book, took out a calendar, and studied it attentively.
"Then I'm afraid you will have some time to wait," he said. "It will not be leap year again until 1912."
This sounded impertinent; but the Boy could no more have been guilty of intentional impertinence toward her, than he could have picked her pocket; and Miss Charteris knew it. There was one thing of which those who had dealings with Christobel Charteris could always be sure—absolute justice. She had seen the Boy's face whiten suddenly, to a terrible pallor, beneath his tan. She knew he was making a desperate fight for self-control. How best could she help? Her own part seemed almost more than she could manage.
"Come here, Boy dear," she said, holding out her hand.
He hesitated one instant; then rose unsteadily to his feet, and came—not to his usual place at the side, bending over her; but in front of her, on one knee, silently waiting.
She bent forward. "Take my hand, Boy."
He took it, in a firm unhesitating clasp. They held each other so, in silence. The colour came back into the Boy's face. The dumb horror died out of his eyes. They smiled into hers again.
"Now promise me, Boy dear, that you will let me tell you all; and that you will try not to misunderstand."