“Now for it,” said Eustace to himself, drawing a long breath, to try and steady the violent pulsations of his heart.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Smithers,” he began.
“Best say nothing more about it,” she put in quickly. “I did it, and I am glad that I did it. What do a few marks matter if a great wrong is prevented thereby? I am not ever likely to have to go to court. Besides, Mr. Meeson, there is another thing; it was through me that you lost your inheritance; it is only right that I should try to be the means of bringing it back to you.”
She dropped her head again, and once more began to play with the bronze lobster, holding her arm in such a fashion that Eustace could not see her face. But if he could not see her face she could see his in the glass, and narrowly observed its every change, which, on the whole, though natural, was rather mean of her.
Poor Eustace grew pale and paler yet, till his handsome countenance became positively ghastly. It is wonderful how frightened young men are the first time that they propose. It wears off afterwards—with practice one gets accustomed to anything.
“Miss Smithers—Augusta,” he gasped, “I want to say something to you!” and he stopped dead.
“Yes, Mr. Meeson,” she answered cheerfully, “what is it?”
“I want to tell you”—and again he hesitated.
“What you are going to do about the will?” suggested Augusta.
“No—no; nothing about the will—please don’t laugh at me and put me off!”