At the word marriage, Mildred's lips seemed to grow thinner. The conversation paused. Alfred noticed that she hesitated, that she was striving to speak. She had broken off her engagement once before with him, and he had begun to fear that she was going to do so again. There was a look of mingled irresolution and determination in her face. She continued to work on her sky; but at every touch it grew worse, and, feeling that she had irretrievably spoilt her drawing, she said:
'But do you think that we shall ever be married, Alfred?'
'Of course. Why? Are you going to break it off?'
'We have been engaged nearly two years, and there seems no prospect of our being married. Harold will never consent. It does not seem fair to keep you waiting any longer.'
'I'd willingly wait twenty years for you, Mildred.'
She looked at him a little tenderly, and he continued more confidently. 'But I'm glad to say there is no longer any question of waiting. My father has consented to settle four hundred a year upon me, the same sum as your brother proposes to settle on you. We can be married when you like.'
She only looked at the spoilt water-colour, and it was with difficulty that Alfred restrained himself from snatching it out of her hands.
'You do not answer. You heard what I said, that my father had agreed to settle four hundred a year upon me?'
'I'm sure I'm very glad, for your sake.'
'That's a very cold answer, Mildred. I think I can say that I'm sure of the appointment.'