“Nothing. Never you mind. I wanted to do it.” Emmy’s cheeks were hot as she spoke; but Alf marvelled at the action, and at her confession of such an impulse.
“How long had you ... wanted to do it?”
“Mind your own business. The idea! Don’t you know better than that?” Emmy asked. It made him chuckle delightedly to have such a retort from her. And it stimulated his curiosity.
“I believe you’re a bit fond of me,” he said. “I don’t see why. There’s nothing about me to write home about, I shouldn’t think. But there it is: love’s a wonderful thing.”
“Is it?” asked Emma, distantly. Why couldn’t he say he loved her? Too proud, was he? Or was he shy? He had only used the word “love” once, and that was in this general sense—as though there was such a thing. Emmy was shy of the word, too; but not as shy as that. She was for a moment anxious, because she wanted him to say the word, or some equivalent. If it was not said, she was dependent upon his charity later, and would cry sleeplessly at night for want of sureness of him.
“D’you love me?” she suddenly said. Alf whistled. He seemed for that instant to be quite taken aback by her inquiry. “There’s no harm in me asking, I suppose.” Into Emmy’s voice there came a thread of roughness.
“No harm at all,” Alf politely said. “Not at all.” He continued to hesitate.
“Well?” Emmy waited, still in his arms, her ears alert.
“We’re engaged, aren’t we?” Alf muttered shamefacedly. “Erum ... what sort of ring would you like? I don’t say you’ll get it ... and it’s too late to go and choose one to-night.”
Emmy flushed again: he felt her tremble.