"Knocked you, old man, this time, eh?"
"Yes, all to pieces!" snarled Patrick savagely. "I shall never believe in my critical judgment again. I dare not look my notice in the face. When I wrote Naquette was a masterpiece, I thought at least there would be some merit in it—I didn't bargain for such rot as this."
In this wise things would have gone on—from bad to worse—had Heaven not created Cecilia nineteen years before.
Cecilia was a tall, fair girl, with dreamy eyes and unpronounced opinions, who longed for the ineffable with an unspeakable yearning.
Frank Grey loved her. He always knew he was going to and one day he did it. After that it was impossible to drop the habit. And at last he went so far as to propose. He was a young lawyer, with a fondness for manly sports and a wealth of blonde moustache.
"Cecilia," he said, "I love you. Will you be mine?"
He had a habit of using unconventional phrases.
"No, Frank," she said gently, and there was a world and several satellites of tenderness in her tremulous tones. "It cannot be."
"Ah, do not decide so quickly," he pleaded. "I will not press you for an answer."