Neva’s face was grave now, but the sparkle was still in her eyes, as she said:
“I am sure I beg your pardon, Mr. Black, but I thought you were a suitor of Mrs. Artress. I never had an idea that your visits were directed to me. I am deeply grateful for the honor you have done me—I suppose that is the proper remark to make under the circumstances; the ladies in novels always say it—but I must decline it.”
“And why, if I may be allowed to ask?” demanded Craven Black, his face deepening in hue nearly to purple. “Why this insulting refusal of an honest offer of marriage, Miss Wynde?”
Neva regarded her angry suitor with cool gravity.
“I beg your pardon if the manner of my refusal seemed insulting,” she said gently, “but the idea seems so singular—so preposterous! At the risk of offending you again, Mr. Black, I must suggest that a union with Mrs. Artress would be more suitable. I am only a girl, and young still, as you know, and it is proper that youth should mate with youth.”
“You prefer my son then?”
“To you? I do.”
“And you will marry him?”
The lovely face shadowed, but Neva answered quietly:
“Mr. Rufus has asked me that question, sir, and I prefer to have him receive his answer from my lips. Whatever my feelings toward him, I have no indecision in regard to you.”