“Oh,” she said in a broken whisper. “If you’d just go away––and leave me to myself.”
Micky did not answer. The impossibility of ever going back now struck him to the soul. This was the end, the very end––he had burned his boats and bidden good-bye to the woman he loved for ever.
Then all his natural chivalry rose in his heart. Hitherto it had been only of himself that he had thought, but now ... his eyes softened as they rested on the girl’s bowed head; he stooped and took her hand, held it fast in his steady grip.
“Will you marry me?” he said very gently.
And, oh, the long time before she answered! It seemed to Micky that he lived through years as he stood there with the rattling tune of the one-step in his ears and Marie’s tragic figure before his eyes. Was she never going to speak?
Then she sat up very stiff and straight––there were tears scorching her flushed cheeks, and her eyes seemed to burn.
“Will I––will I––marry you?” she echoed, as if not understanding.
Her voice rose a little.
“Then it isn’t true ... it can’t be true––what he said?”
“What did he say? Who are you talking about? What do you mean?”