There was a momentary pause. The gentleman was still kneeling in front of the armchair, and the lady was still stroking his hair. There was a look on her face which was half comical and half something else as she changed the topic.
"Rodney, who's Agnes Sybil Armstrong?"
"I don't know, and don't you ask. Let her have her hundred a year, and go hang!"
"Does every man have an Agnes Sybil Armstrong?"
"Emphatically no; only--I was going to say only men like your father, but perhaps you wouldn't like it."
"I wonder--will you ever have one?"
"Gladys! Lady, if a man loves one woman, that's all the feminine kind he'll ever want, especially--if she's a woman like you. Doesn't your instinct tell you that when you're my wife, I'll--be satisfied, in every sense?"
"I hope so. If you weren't, I--I shouldn't like it."
"I should say not. May I hope that there is some possibility of your being my wife?"
"I have some ideas in that direction now, though on Saturday I thought I never should. How prophetic you were? You almost foretold what has happened--almost as if you saw it coming. Did you know that he was ill?"