“Everything. But it doesn’t in the least matter,” he loosely pursued. “You may be quite correct. When we talk of the house your voice comes to me somehow as the wind in its old chimneys.”
Her amusement distinctly revived. “I hope you don’t mean I roar!”
He blushed again; there was no doubt he was confused. “No—nor yet perhaps that you whistle! I don’t believe the wind does either, here. It only whispers,” he sought gracefully to explain; “and it sighs——”
“And I hope,” she broke in, “that it sometimes laughs!”
The sound she gave only made him, as he looked at her, more serious. “Whatever it does, it’s all right.”
“All right?”—they were sufficiently together again for her to lay her hand straight on his arm. “Then you promise?”
“Promise what?”
He had turned as pale as if she hurt him, and she took her hand away. “To meet Mr. Prodmore.”
“Oh, dear, no; not yet!”—he quite recovered himself. “I must wait—I must think.”
She looked disappointed, and there was a momentary silence. “When have you to answer him?”