If only premeditated proposals were made, there would be few marriages in the world. Ten minutes ago, when Micky Mellowes walked into the room, he had no intention of asking Esther to marry him, but now it seemed 118 as if he had come for that express purpose as he stood there, grimly obstinate.
There was a moment of silence; then Esther drew herself up.
“I think you must be mad,” she said. “I’ve only seen you once or twice in my life. I have told you that I am already engaged.”
“I know, but it makes no difference,” said Micky. “I ask you to marry me––will you marry me?”
She drew back from him.
“You must be mad.”
Micky laughed. “You’ve said that two or three times already, but I assure you that I’m quite sane. I loved you the first moment I ever saw you, but, of course, you won’t believe it. However, that doesn’t matter––you haven’t answered my question. Will you marry me?”
“You know I am engaged––how dare you?...” She backed away from him till she was close to the door. Micky laughed savagely.
“You needn’t be afraid––I’m not going to hurt you––I’m not going to move from this hearthrug, but I should like you to answer my question. Once again, will you marry me?”
“No–––”