“I am grateful to you,” she whispered, “for having said what you did to me to-night! And I want to tell you that I’ll follow your advice. I’ll—I’ll snub Beppo! I won’t let him say the sort of things that you think are horrid—and which perhaps are horrid.”
There was a tremor in her voice. And all at once he turned on her. Why shouldn’t he follow Popeau’s advice? Why not burn his boats?
“Look here!” he exclaimed. “I don’t see how you can help knowing—knowing——” He stopped.
“Yes?” whispered Lily. “Knowing what?”
“That I love you! I dare say it seems absurd, considering what a little we’ve seen of one another, and how very seldom I’ve had a chance of talking to you alone. But there it is! I suppose I fell in love with you at first sight—in fact I know I did;—in that big, grey, dirty Paris station. I’ve been a queer, lonely chap—a bit cantankerous, too. But there it is! I’ve never cared for anybody else. And I don’t mind how long I wait—if there’s the slightest chance that in the end I’ll succeed. I oughtn’t to speak like this now, for your people don’t know anything about me.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, then he began again in a slow, thoughtful voice: “I’ll tell you what I’ll do——”
Lily felt as if she must burst out laughing and crying together. She had never thought that this was the way a man proposed.
“I’ll write out this very night an account of myself. I’ll say where I went to school—what my people were like—what I’ve done—and what I hope to do. And then I’ll ask you to send it to your uncle—I mean to that man who’s exactly like your father. Tell him I don’t mind how long I wait, if only I can win you for my wife! If it’s true that you’re not thinking of marrying Beppo Polda then—do give me a chance!”
He spoke in a quick, urgent, muffled voice, and all at once he turned, and took hold of her two hands.
“I can’t expect you to like me yet—you don’t know me well enough—”