"I will, really."
"And when she sets me free," he went on, "we could, we could—" He suddenly stopped.
She looked coolly at him as he hesitated and said: "It IS a difficult little word at times, isn't it?"
"WOULD you marry me?" he asked, with a supreme effort.
"I never cross my bridges until I come to them," said Ethel, languidly. "And we're such a long way from THAT one, aren't we?"
"Then I am to wait?"
"Yes. Do," she replied. "When the time comes to accept the charity of relations, or do something useful for tuppence a week, Bohemian France or Italy—but then the runaways always go to France or Italy, don't they?—Suppose we say Hungary? Shall we?"
He did not answer.
She went on: "Very well. When I have to choose between charity and labour, Bohemian Hungary may beckon me."
He looked at her in a puzzled way. What new mood was this?