“What question?”
“You know very well what question; the answer was just hovering on your lips when we were interrupted.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Hilda, there was an expression in your eyes which I had never seen before, and if your lips were about to contradict the message they sent to me——”
“Seemed to send to you,” she interrupted with a smile.
“Was it only seeming, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m very much disappointed with myself. I don’t call this a courtship at all. My idea of the preliminaries to a betrothal was a long friendship, many moonlight walks, and conversations about delightful topics in which both parties are interested. I pictured myself waiting eagerly under some rose-covered porch while the right person hurried toward me,—on horseback for choice. And now turn from that picture to the actuality. We have known each other only a few days; our first conversation was practically a quarrel; we have talked about finance, and poverty, and a lot of repulsive things of that sort. If I were to say, ‘Yes,’ I should despise myself ever after. It would appear as if I had accepted the first man who offered.”
“Am I the first man, Hilda? I shall never believe it.”
“I’m not going to tell you. You ask altogether too many questions.”
“Well, despite your disclaimer, I shall still insist that the right answer was on your lips when it and you were so rudely chased away.”