“Have you thought it over?” he asked, impressively.
“I, no!—do I ever think anything over but a new step? Besides, such a simple little thing!”
“Simple!” he stammered.
“To say no to. Do you think I’d have the cheek to marry you?”
“Wouldn’t you?” dropped the young man, feebly.
He was innocent of having conceived, still less suggested, so tremendous a contingency; indeed, her contemplation of it, even in dismissal, appeared unseemly. For he had been strictly brought up, and had added, “Thou shalt not wed the name of Veynes in vain,” to a decalogue somewhat abridged, and, as his, father put it, “edited by Debrett.”
But neither his decalogue nor his delicacy prevented him from sketching airily the insignificance of wedding symbols in an aristocratic connection when the heart was involved.
“People talk such nonsense, you know,” he said.
She smiled with engaging innocence, and he edged a little nearer to his meaning, hoping she would meet him halfway.
It was like laying a wash of color beside another which might be wet; he was horribly afraid of a smear; he thought she might have assured him, figuratively, that she would not run. But she only helped herself to another meringue.