She left the matter for a day or two, did not reply, and failed to attend for Violet Hargreave’s violin lesson. A day or two more and she received another letter from Mr. Hargreave in which he completely abased himself, and, in his desire to be kind and to palliate the affront he conceived himself to have put upon her, waxed tender and was almost lyrical in her praises.
She tried to write to him but could find nothing to say. Tears rolled down and plopped on to the paper, and she grew hot and impatient with herself. Clearly she must go to his house and reassure him. No sooner had she resolved on that, than she felt that she could not explain herself, that he would renew his proposal, and she would have to say either “Yes” or “No.” If “Yes,” then a thousand and one objections would rise in her mind. If “No,” then it would become impossible for her ever to enter his house again.
She dried her eyes and resolved that she would go there and then and get it over. It was evening. She could ask for one of the Hargreave girls, leave a piece of music; she was familiar enough at the house; no one would suspect the undercurrent.
As she went downstairs her mother called to her. She could not find “Johnny Ludlow” anywhere, and what had Mary done with it, and why was she so careless?
“I am not careless,” replied Mary. “You were reading it yourself. You must have left it in your room.”
“Johnny Ludlow” was found behind the cushions of Mrs. Folyat’s chair. Mary felt a gust of impatience as she gave the book to her mother. She sat down suddenly, and with a desperate gulp she said very quickly:
“Mr. Hargreave has asked me to marry him!”
“You, my dear . . . Mr. Hargreave! He must be nearly sixty!”
The word “sixty” chilled Mary.
“Fifty-one,” she murmured.