“Well?” she said, thinking of her eyes and cheeks.
“Are you dreaming dreams alone, here in the dark?”
“I’m afraid so; I dream too many dreams; I want something real; I do not like the stuff that dreams are made of.”
“You are real enough.” He leaned against the low mantel with one elbow resting upon it; she did not lift her eyes; she was afraid. Had he come to say something to her?
“Miss Tessa.”
She did not reply, she was rubbing her fingers over the crimson velvet.
“I have been thinking of something that I wish to say to you.”
“Well, I am approachable,” in a light, saucy voice.
“Think well before you speak; it is a question that, middle-aged as I am, I never asked any woman before; I want to ask you to become my wife.”
She had raised her eyes in surprise, unfeigned surprise.