I leaned back, tapping the letter with the ends of my fingers, and signified my willingness to wait until her operatic fervour should have spent itself.
“It must have been ferverish,” she said, still laughing. “Did it take you long to write?”
“About eight years, Millicent,” I replied.
“And not to be posted after all? Never mind; I suppose I shall see it in the biography. I declare I’m almost curious, Rollo. Tell me, is it——?” She paused, and looked fairly and quietly at me, with an odd smile on her lips.
“It is,” I replied, returning her gaze. “Would you care to read it, Millicent?”
She rose and went to the window. A cold grey light that heralded the passing of the shower filled the room. The heavens were relenting, and already a corner of the leaden pall had lifted. Millicent would probably take the opportunity to leave.
“Would you care to read it?” I repeated, looking over my shoulder.
She faced round suddenly.
“No, Rollo,” she said, “I should not.”
“You are probably right,” I replied. “Proposal is a venerable formality; but the inevitable scene——”