“Laurence,” she said, “don’t misunderstand me; I am not really flippant and horrid like that, but it is true all the same. I have told Arthur, deliberately and seriously, that, if he were ever to ask me to marry him, nothing would ever make me take such a thing even into momentary consideration. I would not marry him for anything.”
“Had he asked you to do so?” said Mr Cheviott, in a tone half of amaze, half of bewilderment.
“No,” said Alys, “I told you he had not, and most certainly after what I have said, he never will.”
“Do you think he had any intention of the kind?” again questioned her brother.
Alys hesitated. Her quick wits told her that she must be careful what admissions she made. Were she to reply what she believed to be the truth—that her cousin never had had, never would have any such feelings with regard to her as could lead to his asking her to many him—the effect on him might, she felt vaguely, be disastrous. So she hesitated, and meanwhile her brother watched her narrowly.
“I don’t see,” she said at last, “I don’t see that I need answer that, Laurence. All I want you to know is that, after what I have said, Arthur could never think of me in that way. I have made it impossible for him to do so.”
“And what made you do this? What has put all this into your head? Was it Aunt Winstanley?” asked Mr Cheviott.
“No,” replied Alys. “That is to say, Aunt Winstanley did not put anything in my head, though I forced her to answer one or two questions I asked her. She did so very confusedly, I assure you, and but for my own ideas I should have been little the better for her information. No one is to blame. I have not been as blind and unconscious as you thought—that is all.”
That was all in one sense. It was plain to Mr Cheviott that Alys would say no more, and on reflection he could not see that any more explanation on her part would do any good. He stood silent, hardly able as yet to see clearly the effect of this extraordinary turn of affairs.
“I am going up to my own room, Laurence,” said Alys, rising slowly as she spoke. “I am very tired. I think I won’t come down to dinner. I don’t want you just now to say whether you think I have done rightly or wrongly, wisely or unwisely—some time or other I dare say you will explain all that has puzzled me. But in the mean time some instinct tells me, told me while I was doing it, that you, Laurence, would be glad for me to do it. Kiss me, dear, and say good-night.”