Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge. Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred to what I had just been saying.
PRESENTLY HIS HAND FASTENED UPON MINE AND HELD IT TIGHT.
‘And you,—do you think marriage would colour your convictions?’
‘Would it yours?’
‘That depends.’ He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had learned to look for when he was most in earnest, ‘It depends on whether you would marry me.’
I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.
‘Well?’
I found my voice,—or a part of it.
‘Well?—to what?’