There was so much odd gentleness in the way he voiced his ruthless theory that Barclay was touched.
"You are not far out there," he answered unemotionally, "only my day never did come. It was a kind of false dawn—and then—ah, well, it is rather late, so suppose we get to business. As matters stand at present, this young lady happens to be engaged not to you, but to me, and what is more, she—she has practically refused to break the engagement, so it is left to me. And this," he added cheerfully, "is a little hard on me, don't you think?"
"I do. Do you want me to do it for you?"
"No. I want to hear your ideas about the matter. For example, what would you suggest as a good first step?"
Wick thought for a moment. "I don't quite see the first step, but the end is perfectly clear."
"Yes?"
"She must propose to me." The young man's voice was full of confidence, and he appeared to be unconscious of the absurdity of his suggestion.
"Grisel—Grisel to propose to you? Nonsense, Wick!"
"But she must. Look here, Sir John." Wick, who had sat down, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and spoke very earnestly.
"You know nothing about me, sir, so, if you don't mind, I'd better tell you a little. You see, they—the Walbridges—think that I am still the little Fleet Street reporter I was when they first knew me, but—I am not. For several months"—he talked on, explaining his position with a modest pride that pleased his hearer.