“I have learned that whomsoever she marries, she will never marry Harold Wynne,” said Edmund.
“Great heavens! You have found this out? Are you certain? Men are so apt to rush at conclusions.”
“Yes; some men are. I have always preferred the crawling process, though it is the slower.”
“That is a confession—crawling! But how have you found out that she will not marry him?”
“He has treated her very badly.”
“That has got nothing whatever to do with the question. Heavens! If women declined to marry the men that treat them badly, the statistics of spinsterhood would be far more alarming than they are at present.”
“She will not marry him.”
“Will she marry you?”
Miss Craven had sprung to her feet. She was in a nervous condition, and it was intensified by his irritating reiteration of the one statement.
“Will she marry you?” she cried, in a voice that had a strident ring about it. “Will she marry you?”