Herring had risen and was walking about with his head between his hands.
“Never mind him. Miss Bulstrode is a lady of about—how old?”
“Eighteen—no, nineteen last birthday.”
“A tall, handsome sort of girl?”
“Yes. I say, has anything happened to her?”
“Nothing has happened to her,” assured him Somerville. “She’s all right. Been having rather a good time, on the whole.”
The Poet was relieved to hear it.
“I asked her an hour ago,” said Jack Herring, who was still holding his head between his hands as if to make sure it was there, “if she thought she could ever learn to love me. Would you say that could be construed into an offer of marriage?”
The remainder of the Club was unanimously of opinion that, practically speaking, it was a proposal.
“I don’t see it,” argued Jack Herring. “It was merely in the nature of a remark.”