“I’m—I’m very unlucky. I—I thought such a fine day, I—I might have induced you both to—to—there’s such a pretty drive to Wilton.”
“Yes—I know—I’m sure she’d have liked it of all things.”
“Do you really think so?” exclaimed the young man, inquiringly. “I wish—I wish very much I could—I could flatter myself.”
Aunt Dinah looked up, and at him earnestly but kindly, and said nothing, and so looked down again. There was encouragement in that look, and Trevor waxed eloquent.
“I—I wish I could—I wish I dare—I—I think her so beautiful. I—I can’t express all I think, and I—there’s nothing I would not do to make her friends approve—a—a—in fact I should be so much obliged if I thought you would wish me well, and be my friend—and—and⸺”
And Vane Trevor, for want of anything distinct to add to all this, came to a pause.
And Miss Perfect, with a very honest surprise in her face, said:
“Am I to understand, Mr. Vane Trevor?” and she too came to a stop.
But with those magical words the floodgates of his eloquence were opened once more.
“Yes, I do. I do indeed. I mean to—to propose for Miss Darkwell, if—if I were sure that her friends liked the idea, and that I could think she really liked me. I came to-day with the intention of speaking to her.”