“You cannot.”
“I shall ask Lady Meryon.”
“I forbid you.”
And then the unexpected happened, and an unbearable impulse swept me into folly—or was it wisdom?
“Listen to me. I would not have said it yet, but this settles it. I want you to marry me. I want it atrociously!”
It was a strange word. What I felt for her at that moment was difficult to describe. I endured it like a pain that could only be assuaged by her presence, but I endured it angrily. We were walking on the sunset road—very deserted and quiet at the time. The place was propitious if nothing else was.
She looked at me in transparent astonishment;
“Mr. Clifden, are you dreaming? You can’t mean what you say.”
“Why can’t I? I do. I want you. You have the key of all I care for. I think of the world without you and find it tasteless.”
“Surely you have all the world can give? What do you want more?”