"Yes," he said, looking at her hands that seemed to belong to the earth into which they were pressing—"Because I want you to marry me——"
The moment of her surprise had come before—now she only said very quietly—
"Why—what do you know about me?"
"I know—enough—to ask you," he said, stumbling over his words. He was now afraid that, after all, she intended to refuse him, and the terror of this made his heart stop. No words would come. He stared at her with all the fright in his eyes.
"Roddy" (she had never called him that before), "do you care——"
Then she stopped.
She began again. "I don't want to talk nonsense. I want to say exactly what I feel. I suppose most girls would want to be free a little longer, would want to have a good time another two or three seasons—but I don't—I hate being free—I want somebody to keep me, to prevent my doing silly things, to look after me ... and ... I'd rather you did it—than anybody else...." Then she went on quickly—"But it is more than that. I do like you most awfully, only I suppose I'm not the kind of girl to be frantically excited, to be wild about it all. I'm not that. I do like you—better than any other man I know—Is that enough?"
"I think—we can be most awfully good pals—always," he said.
"Oh!" she cried suddenly, putting her hand on his and looking straight into his face. "That's what I want—that, that—If that's it, and you think we can, why then, I'd rather marry you, Roddy dear, than anyone in the world."
"Then it's settled," he said. But he did not take her hand or touch her. They sat for quite a long time, looking at the rippling corn and the house, that was like a white boat sailing on the green far below them.