"Oh!"
He was obliged to laugh with her at the absurdity of the suggestion. "Or to-morrow morning, at the very latest," he amended seriously. "I don't think we dare wait longer."
"Why is that?"
"Delays are perilous. There might be another chap."
"How can you be sure there isn't already?"
He fell sober enough at this. "But there isn't, is there, really?"
She delayed her reply provokingly. At length, "I don't see why I should say," she observed, "but I don't mind telling you—no, there isn't—yet." And as she spoke, Farrell called "Sophia?" from the window of the drawing-room. She stood up, answering clearly with the assurance that she was coming, and began deliberately to move toward the house.
Amber followed, deeply anxious. "I've not offended you?"
"No," she told him gravely, "but you have both puzzled and mystified me. I shall have to sleep on this before I can make up my mind whether or not to be offended."
"And … will you marry me?"