"No. I was just getting to it." He was silent a moment, staring at his foot. Suddenly he looked up at her—she had withdrawn her hand. "When," he began, "when are we going to call this thing a game?"
"I don't understand what you mean."
He halted. "Well," he said. "How—when are you going to marry me?" He was looking into her face with that same queer, stubborn expression.
Her heart stopped momentarily. "Why," she faltered, "I hadn't thought of it."
They sat there in the hushed lobby as remote from the world as though shipwrecked on a desert island. It was Mary Louise who now looked at the floor. She could feel Claybrook's eyes upon her. He was waiting for her to speak, but she could not collect her thoughts. It had come upon her baldly, without preparation. She scarcely realized the import of his words.
"Well," he was saying, "think of it now."
Another pause.
She raised her eyes and looked at him squarely in spite of the trembling in her limbs. His face loomed big and blank before her, though his voice was very kind.
"I don't know," she heard herself saying. "You—I—it's come on me rather quickly."
For a moment he made no reply. A street car thundered past and made the windows rattle.