Fancy laughed. Alfred fumed on, beside himself with love and impatience.
"I've walked out with many maids, some not so maidenly as might be. I'm a picker and chooser, getting that much sense from my mother. I never walked long with any of 'em. If you'd happened along fifteen years ago, when the first petticoat hit me in eye, I'd have remained true and faithful to you—so help me God!"
She remained silent, twisting her fingers. He said hoarsely:
"I want you desperately for my wife, Fancy Broomfield. And you know it, being a clever maid. Now—don't you want me?"
He felt her body relaxing, almost slipping from him. Then, very slowly, she lifted her eyes to his, and he read in their luminous depths the blessed answer which her quivering lips withheld.
He kissed her reverently and tenderly.
To his surprise and delight, she kissed him, clinging to him, and whispering pantingly:
"You'll be kind to me, Alfred; I know you will. I'm such a poor wife for the likes of you. Your mother thinks so, and your Aunt Jane."
"You can twist them round your lil' finger."
"I believe you love your motor-'bus more than me."