“Hold on—that move puts you in check. Besides, Christy, it’s obvious that you ought to protect this rook here, if you want to break my attack.”
“Certainly. But don’t you agree with me?”
“Eh-what? Yes. But I’ll tell you what, Christy. This modern generation can’t be forced to do a damn thing. Haven’t I argued with her? Haven’t I told her she’d end up in a scandal? ’Pon my word, Christy, you’d better get a hustle on—check.”
Thus the party broke up, somewhat after ten o’clock, much to the dissatisfaction of both lovers, and much to Betty’s enjoyment. She was not surprised when Conrad called up the next day and wished to have tea with her that afternoon—alone, if possible. “Why, yes,” she said; “it would be delightful. But one can never tell who will drop in.”
It was easy enough, however, to arrange matters so that no one could drop in. This she did. She was knitting in the parlor when Conrad arrived. He was resplendent in gray spats and shiny shoes. She asked him to sit down beside her on the sofa, and poured him a cup of tea. After this was finished, he began, quite abruptly:
“Elizabeth, you must have noticed that even during your childhood I have looked upon you, not with the eyes of an elderly friend—which might, indeed, have been the case—but with those of a lover. I have never been entirely happy out of your sight, and never so supremely happy as when favored with a glance of your eyes” (here he looked at her), “or a touch of your hand” (here he took her hand, which she allowed him to retain). “I have, of course, understood, my dear, that your youth and extreme beauty entitled you to—ah—your little fling in—ah—society. I have for this reason stood aside, and have offered not the slightest objection, either to your—ah—modernism, or to your—ah—gayety. But I feel now that you have reached the age of full discretion. I regard you openly as a woman with whom I am in love. And I ask you, humbly, to become my wife.”
If Betty was laughing she did not show it. “Oh, Christy!” she exclaimed. “I—I hadn’t thought. I don’t know. It is such a step.”
“Why, dearest? How would it change you so very much?”
“Change? That’s just it. I’m afraid it wouldn’t change me at all. I would still love dances and parties and music and Harry Fisher (here Mr. Conrad started) and Charles Saunders (here he jumped perceptibly), and cabarets. These things you can’t give me, dear. I should have to be such a dutiful wife.”