Melissa’s voice was cool, rather matter-of-fact, just as her smile seemed more a mechanical civility than a spontaneous expression of pleasure.
“I hope I see you well, Melissa?” Sir Richard said formally.
“Perfectly, I thank you. Pray sit down! I apprehend that you have come to discuss the question of our marriage.”
He regarded her from under slightly raised brows. “Dear me!” he said mildly. “Someone would appear to have been busy.”
She was engaged upon some stitchery, and went on plying her needle with unruffled composure. “Do not let us beat about the bush!” she said. “I am certainly past the age of being missish, and you, I believe, may rank as a sensible man.”
“Were you ever missish?” enquired Sir Richard.
“I trust not. I have no patience with such folly. Nor am I romantic. In that respect, we must be thought to be well-suited.”
“Must we?” said Sir Richard, gently swinging his gold-handled quizzing-glass to and fro.
She seemed amused. “Certainly! I trust you have not, at this late date, grown sentimental! It would be quite absurd!”
“Senility,” pensively observed Sir Richard, “often brings sentiment in its train. Or so I have been informed.”