“Please sit down, Mr. Percival. Do not ask me to tell you anything more about Mr. Shay,” she went on hurriedly, and in some confusion. “I don't believe he would like it,—and as he is a dangerous character, I beg of you not to—”
“If Soapy Shay dared to intrude—”
“I implore you, do not think anything more about it. He was most courteous and polite and all that.”
He remained standing, his gaze fixed upon her face. Somehow, he guessed the nature of Soapy's visit.
“I suppose he came as a tale-bearer.”
“I must decline to discuss the matter, Mr. Percival.”
“Mrs. Spofford,” he began, with all the dignity of a courtier, “I have come to request the hand of your niece in marriage. I have loved her from the very—”
“Oh, God!” groaned the trembling lady. “It has come at last! It has come,—just as I feared. For pity's sake, Mr. Percival, spare her! She is—”
“I beg your pardon,” he broke in, flushing. “I think you misunderstand me. I am asking your consent to marry her. I believe it is still customary among gentlemen to consult the—”
“Permit me to interrupt you, Mr. Percival,” said she, regaining her composure and her austerity. “What you ask is quite impossible. My niece is,—ah,—I may say tentatively engaged. I am sorry for you. Perhaps it would be just as well if you did not wait for her to come in. She will be—”