'Of course,' replied Clare, smiling, thinking of her bets in gloves; 'a very deep interest.'
Encouraged by this trivial remark, he thought to himself, 'Hang it—here goes!' and while there occurred vaguely to his lazy mind recollections of all he had read of proposals, and seen of them on the stage, he took her hand in his, and said abruptly:
'Miss Collingwood—Clare—dearest Clare—will you be my wife? Will you marry me—love me—and all that, don't you know?'
Clare withdrew her hand, and slightly elevated her proud eyebrows, which were dark and straight rather than arched, while something of a dangerous and then of a droll sparkle came into her dreamy and beautiful eyes, for neither the tone nor the mode of the proposal proved pleasing to her, in her then mood of mind especially.
'Excuse me, Major Desmond,' said she, scarcely knowing how to frame her reply, 'you have done me an honour, which—which I must, however, decline.'
'Just now, perhaps; but—but in time, dearest Clare?'
'Your sister may call me that; but to you I am Miss Collingwood.'
'Shall I ever get beyond that?' he urged, in a soft tone.
'I do not know,' murmured Clare, doubtfully; for she knew what her father wished and expected of her; 'but as yet let us be friends as we have been, and not talk of marriage, I implore you.'
'Deuced odd!' thought the Major, who, perhaps, felt relieved in his mind.