"George," she said, "you'll make me cry if you go on like that. Why can't we stop as we are just a little longer? Something's sure to turn up."
Leslie shook his head.
"Nothing ever turns up in this world unless people dig for it. Come, Nancy"—he smiled at her—"if you like me well enough to marry me, surely you can't mind my asking your father whether he objects. I know you dislike rows and unpleasantness of any kind, but there must be a limit to everything."
Nancy wriggled rather unhappily in her chair, looking prettier than ever.
"I don't know what to do," she said forlornly. "I'm awfully fond of you, George, and I would like to marry you, really I would, dear, but I simply can't go and have a nasty, silly squabble with father and mother. You know they wouldn't hear of it. They're frightfully old-fashioned, both of them, and they think I'm sure to marry a duke or something. If I told them I wanted to marry you, they'd have a fit. I might just as well say I was going to run away with the coachman. Give me some more tea, dear."
Leslie, who did not seem to be the least annoyed, poured her out a second cup.
"Well, it seems pretty plain, Nancy," he said, "that you'll have to choose between me and your love of peace."
She looked at him with a kind of mock despair.
"Oh, George, are you going to desert me, just when I want your help? I didn't think you were like that, or I shouldn't have loved you."
"But you must make up your mind one way or the other," protested Leslie, laughing.