“You are there, May,” she remarked.
“Yes,” was my subdued response.
“Where have you been all evening?”
“It does not matter to any one.”
“Indeed it does. You were talking to Sir Peter Le Marchant. I saw you meet him from my bedroom window.”
“Did you?”
“Did he propose to you?” she inquired, with a composure which seemed to me frightful. “Worldly,” I thought, was a weak word to apply to her, and I was suffering acutely.
“He did.”
“Well, I suppose it would be a little difficult to accept him.”
“I did not accept him.”