On top of this spell of uneasiness came the surprising proposition of Mrs. Davis. Between the suspense of not hearing from Nellie and the dread of offending the dead he was already in a sharp state of nerves. But when Mrs. Davis gently confided to him that she needed a live man to conduct her affairs without being actuated by a desire to earn a weekly salary he was completely stupefied.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mrs. Davis,” he said, beginning to perspire very freely.
They were seated in the parlour of her house in Brown Street. She had sent for him.
“Of course, Harvey, it is most unseemly of me to suggest it at the present time, seeing as I have only been in mourning for three months, but I thought perhaps you’d feel more settled like if you knew just what to expect of me.”
“Yes; so’s you could rest easy in your mind. It would have to be quite a ways off yet, naturally, so’s people wouldn’t say mean things about us. They might, you know, considering the way you carried on with women in New York. Not for the world would I have ’em say or even think that anything had been going on between you and me prior to the time of Mr. Davis’ death, but—but you know how people will talk if they get a chance. For that reason I think we’d better wait until the full period of mourning is over. That’s only about a year longer, and it would stop––”
“Are—are you asking me to—to marry you, Mrs. Davis?” gasped Harvey, clutching the arms of the chair.
“Well, Harvey,” said she, kindly, “I am making it easy for you to do it yourself.”
“Holy––” began he, but strangled back the word “Mike,” remembering that Mrs. Davis, a devout church member, abhorred anything that bordered on the profane.
“Holy what?” asked she, rather coyly for a lady who was not likely to see sixty again unless reincarnated.