“What was that?”
“Marry Mr. Thurley.”
Dick started and grew very red.
“Oh, yes, it is better than that, much better,” he assented heartily.
“Yes, I—I thought you’d think so.”
She said this because they were both getting rather flurried and excited, and she felt a little awkward. Both were leaning against the table, and tapping their fingers on it. Something therefore had to be said, but in a moment she felt it was not the right thing. For Dick began to breathe hard, and to grow restless, as he said quickly:
“You see it’s not as if some young fellow of a suitable age, whom you—whom you—rather liked, could ever have a chance of—of asking you to be his wife. That would be a different thing altogether.”
“Ah, yes, if I were not lame! If I could ride, and row, and—and sail a boat!” said Freda with a quavering voice.
“No, no, just as you are, the sweetest, the dearest little——”
He stopped short, got up abruptly, and rushed at the fire, which he poked so vigorously that it went out. Then, quite subdued, he turned again to Freda, and holding his hands behind him, as he stood in a defiant attitude with his back to the fireplace, he asked abruptly: