“What things?” asked Joan rashly.
Again Samuel blushed.
“Well—husbands, and—cradles and such-like,” he answered vaguely.
“Thank you, I prefer graves,” Joan replied with tartness.
By this time it had dawned upon Samuel that he was “getting no forwarder.” For a moment he thought of retreat; then the native determination that underlay his soft voice and timid manner came to his aid.
“Miss Haste—Joan,” he said huskily, “I want to speak to you.”
Joan felt that the hour of trial had come, but still sought a feeble refuge in flippancy.
“You have been doing that for the last five minutes, Mr. Rock,” she said; “and I should like to go home.”
“No, no, not yet—not till you have heard what I have to say.” And he made a movement as though to cut off her retreat.
“Well, be quick then,” she answered, in a voice in which vexation and fear struggled for the mastery.