Mr. Bradfield glanced at her, looked away quickly, took up his stand on the hearth-rug, and drummed on his chin with his fingers.
Chris looked at the door, and hoped he would let her go. She had an idea what these signs might portend.
“It wouldn’t surprise me now,” he began, in a rather nervous tone, “to hear of a man wanting to marry you when he had only known you two days. But it would surprise me,” he went on, with a little awkward laugh, “to hear that he had plucked up courage to ask you.”
Before he had reached the last word, Chris was at the door. But Mr. Bradfield reached it nearly as soon as she.
“No, no, I want to ask you a question before you go. Tell me, you’ve had offers of marriage made to you before now, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I have, but—but I don’t like them; I don’t like them at all. It’s very unpleasant, you know,” she went on rapidly, looking anywhere but at him, “to have to say things people don’t want to hear.”
“Well, I suppose,” said Mr. Bradfield, who was not to be put off now that he had strung himself up to the required pitch, “the man will come some day to receive an answer which is not unpleasant?”
Chris shook her head doubtfully.
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”