He noticed preparations for a move at the Wangle table.
"Oh, please, don't hurry! Let's go upstairs and sit and smoke for a little time."
"Do you think I ought," enquired Patricia critically, her head on one side.
"Well," replied Bowen, "I think that you might safely do so as we are engaged," and that settled it.
They went upstairs, and it was a quarter to eleven before Patricia finally decided that she must make a move.
"Do you know," she said as she rose, "I am afraid I have enjoyed this most awfully; but oh! to-morrow morning."
"Shall you be tired?" he enquired.
"Tired!" she queried, "I shall be hot with shame. I shall not dare to look at myself in the glass. I—I shall give myself a most awful time. For days I shall live in torture. You see I'm excited now and—and—you seem so nice, and you've been so awfully kind; but when I get alone, then I shall start wondering what was in your mind, what you have been thinking of me, and—and—oh! it will be awful. No; I'll come with you while you get your hat. I daren't be left alone. It might come on then and—and I should probably bolt. Of course I shall have to ask you to see me home, if you will, because—because——"
"I'm your fiancé," he smiled.
"Ummm," she nodded.