“Why,—I don’t know exactly about that.”
“The poor man has my sympathy. Doubtless he is inconsolable.” Peyton scarce knew what he was saying, or whom it was about.
“Why, no,” said Miss Sally, averting her eyes, with a smiling shyness, “not altogether inconsolable. That’s just it.”
“Oh, is it?” said Peyton, obliviously.
“You may have noticed that he spends a good deal of time here at present,” she went on.
“A good deal of time,” he repeated. “There’s doubtless some strong attraction.”
“Yes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say it, but there is a strong attraction. In fact, he has proposed marriage to me, and now, as a man of the world to a woman of little experience, would you advise me to accept him?”
And she looked at the disconsolate officer so sweetly, it seemed impossible he should do aught but say it would be throwing herself away to bestow on an old man charms of which younger and warmer eyes were sensible. But he answered only:
“Certainly! An excellent match!”