"But can you walk?"
"Oh, yes, with a little help, quite easily."
"Here is my stick—not a Rotten Row crutch, you see—lean on it well on one side, and on my arm on the other—so."
At the threshold of the door she pauses to rest a moment and take one backward glance at the beloved flower-scented room, at the dainty table all awry, at the Widow Malone, her raptures exhausted, sipping a saucer of cream on the spotless carpet.
"Oh, what a mess I have made of your beautiful tidy room!" she cries in childish dismay. "It is easily seen a Lefroy has been in possession. It's quite disgraceful—the cushions all upside down, the antimacassars crumpled, saucers on the floor, and an old bow from my polonaise, with two crooked hairpins, stuck in the arm of the sofa. I must get them, let me go."
"No," he says, laughing; "leave the room exactly as it is, and consider your property confiscated, Miss Lefroy."
With an impulse that she can not control, she looks up into his face and says quickly, with a puzzled frown—
"What made you do it? What put it into your head?"
"What put what into my head?"
"Oh, you know what I mean! What made you ask me to marry you?"