“Oh! I congratulate you.”
“Thank you—I hoped you would.”
She looked away, gravely, toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was silence. Then he leaned toward her.
“Constance, will you marry me?”
“No!”
A pause of four minutes during which Constance stared steadily at the mountain. At the end of that time her curiosity overcame her dignity; she glanced at him sidewise. He was watching her with a smile, partly of amusement, partly of something else.
“Dear Constance, haven’t you had enough of play, are you never going to grow up? You are such a kid!”
She turned back to the mountain.
“I haven’t known you long enough,” she threw over her shoulder.
“Six years!”