“Not if we were married,” said Percy, boldly breaking the ice.
“What do you mean, Mr. de Brabazon?”
“I hope you will excuse me, Miss Florence—Miss Linden, I mean; but I’m awfully in love with you, and have been ever so long—but I never dared to tell you so. I felt so nervous, don’t you know? Will you marry me? I’ll be awfully obliged if you will.”
Mr. de Brabazon rather awkwardly slipped from his chair, and sank on one knee before Florence.
“Please arise, Mr. de Brabazon,” said Florence, hurriedly. “It is quite out of the question—what you ask—I assure you.”
“Ah! I see how it is,” said Percy, clasping his hands sadly. “You love another.”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Then I may still hope?”
“I cannot encourage you, Mr. de Brabazon. My heart is free, but it can never be yours.”
“Then,” said Percy, gloomily, “there is only one thing for me to do.”