Deb thought: “It’s coming now....”
It came.
The explanation was simple after all: Samson, it appeared, according to his mother, did not understand girls. He had never taken any notice of them—till Deb. He was that sort of man. So when Deb in her first confusion and surprise had stammered “no” to his offer, he had believed she meant “no”.... He had come home in a terrible state—dear silly fellow!—till they had all assured him it was all right, and that he had only to press for a different answer, to get it.... “Girls aren’t as downright as men,” Beatrice had assured him—“just the plain question, without even taking her hand?—and then you shut up completely? Oh, Samson, you old goose—you don’t deserve her!” To which her brother answered gloomily: “How can I take her hand before she has accepted me?”
“You know, little Deb”—Mrs Phillips wound up her recital, “Samson is so upright——”
Downright ... and upright ... yes, all that, but she did not want him. How to make these people aware that it was more than maidenly bashfulness which had prompted her to let drop the stupendous good fortune deposited in the palms of her hands.
Duly chastened, she sat quietly on a small pouffe, her head bent, her hands linked in her lap, while Mrs Phillips apologized for Samson’s remissness in not urging his suit to triumphant conclusion that afternoon on the bridge; and betrayed at the same time her stern pride in the rigid sense of honour which had forbidden her son to speak to the girl of his great love for her at the same time as he proposed marriage. “He argued that he didn’t want to influence you, dear. So I promised to put that right for him. He’s so absurdly chivalrous, that big boy of mine. All his brothers have had their little flirtations. Abe was quite a social success, as I daresay you are aware. But Samson, of course, is the eldest of the four; and his grandmother’s favourite; and that is quite important, as I daresay you know. He always refused to let a girl believe that he meant something serious when he didn’t. And I think, my child, that he was secretly waiting for you to grow up.”
“I’m twenty-five,” whispered Deb inadequately.
“My dear—not really? I thought you were at least three years younger than that. And you have never been in love until now?”
How Cliffe Kennedy would have let his hoyden invention romp at this juncture! But Deb was too aghast at the slow process which was ringing her in, for even the memory of Cliffe—somewhere in the world—to bring comfort.
“I’m not in love with your son,” she cried desperately.