Well, of course he wanted her. If you ask a woman to marry you, you must want her unless you are a young fool under the influence of glamour. There was no glamour. Horace had never pretended in his life, and he did not pretend now. He simply said:
“It would make me very happy if you would be my wife, Edith.”
“I should like so much to make you very happy,” said Edith. Then, suddenly, inconsequently, and very foolishly, she burst into tears.
“Don’t, my dear--don’t,” he exclaimed hurriedly. He tried to take her hands from her face, but she would not let him. He looked at her in bewilderment; she shook with these astonishing sobs; and she was a most sensible woman, and thirty. He could not understand her.
He kissed the clenched hands which covered her face, and almost as suddenly the sobs ceased. She drew in her breath with a quick sound. He walked to the balustrade and began to whistle. They were in a very secluded part of the gardens, but one never knew. No! fortunately there was no one in sight. What an extraordinary, lovely scene it was! Perhaps Edith would stop crying soon.
She did; she brushed the tears from her eyes and laughed.
“Oh, how silly you must think me!” she said. “And I’m thirty--you know I’m thirty?”
“I think this is the third time that you have told me you are,” cried Horace. He came and sat down beside her again. She did not make him feel uncomfortable any more.
“Do smoke,” said Edith quickly. “I know you’re dying to.”
“Thanks, if I may.” He lit; a cigarette. And she saw with a sudden sinking of her heart that his hands were steady.