“I don’t know as I like that,” she said, frowning at the implication that she was not of feminine frailty.
“Well, it’s true.”
“You don’t think I can be carried away, then?” she said, with a heightened flush. “You’re the last to say that.”
Luckily, the arrival of the minestrone broke in upon a delicate subject, and the conversation, subject to the censorship of the waiter, became desultory. Dinner over, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes full on his face, and said:
“King, shall I marry Mr. Pomello?”
He was so astonished that she herself could not repress a smile.
“Say that again,” he said, bewildered.
“I want your advice. Ought I to marry Mr. Pomello?”
“What the devil do you want to marry an old crutch for?” he said, more irritated than he would have believed possible. “Has he asked you?”
“Twenty times—I’ve been putting him off. It’s got to be yes or no to-night, and that’s no jolly. It’s take it or leave it.”