The atmosphere of the room changed with the passing of the sunlight—grew tense, electric, almost, one would have said, expectant; and Owen realized that the moment for which he waited had come.
Toni, having finished her tea, was sitting rather slackly in her chair, gazing dreamily out of the window; and Owen hesitated for a minute before he spoke. She looked so young, so wistful, so helpless. It was almost unfair, selfish, to speak to the child—and then, suddenly, he knew that selfish or no, he must put an end to his own solitary sore-heartedness.
"Toni"—she looked up as he spoke, and his utterance of her name set the whole atmosphere throbbing with wild, sweet possibilities—"I want to ask you something."
She did not speak, only her eyes fastened on his face.
"Do you think, Toni"—for a moment he faltered, then plunged bravely on—"you could ever bring yourself to marry me? Oh, I know you're surprised—I ought not to spring it on you like this—but if you will be my wife I will do my best to make you happy."
There was a silence. Suddenly an owl flew, hooting, past the window, and in the dusk his white wings looked ghostly, unreal.
Then, quite quietly, Toni spoke.
"Mr. Rose, do you mean it? You want to marry me?"
"Yes, dear." For an instant he spoke as one speaks to a child, so powerful was the illusion of youth in the large-eyed Toni just then. "Well, what do you say? Will you have me?"
He was still sitting in the big chair opposite to her, one hand on the arm, the other clenched on his knee; and he was unprepared for Toni's answer.