But unlike the case of all the others, it was reserved to her to find out. He came to the flat next day and asked her to marry him.
She noticed how very smart he was directly he came in, also that he was not smoking; and she was at once fluttered by the complimentary things he said about the flat.
“Refinement—good taste”; and he glanced sadly here and there. “That’s what you can’t buy with money. This is a home, Miss Verinder.”
Then he went straight ahead. “As things go, I’m a rich man. I don’t ask you what you’ve got, and I don’t want to know. You can keep yerself in clothes, p’raps? Leave it at that. I’m not after your money, Miss Verinder. It’s you I want—and the refined comfortable home you can give me. Inferior by birth and education, granted. But if I can anyways rise to your level, I mean to try.”
She stopped him as soon as she could, and said the dreadful conventional things that used to be said on such occasions during the middle period of Queen Victoria’s reign—to the effect that she was honoured by his wish, although she could not respond to it, that she esteemed and respected him, and hoped he might later on be willing to accept her friendship in lieu of what he had asked for. But, curiously enough, the things were true. As Miss Millbank would have put it, she felt them. Through it all there was shining forth at her the unmistakable fact. This Mr. Leahurst was in truth a simple kindly creature—a good sort.
“Well, it’s a hideous disappointment. I don’t mind saying I thought the sympathy was mutual. There, it’s my own fault. I told you, not accustomed to the ways of ladies—I mean, real ladies—and I mistook your polite manners.”
“I am so sorry,” said Emmie, in the same mid-Victorian style.
“Well, there’s an end of it.” He picked up his silk hat and malacca cane, which he had brought into the room just as he had always seen done by people on the stage. “I bear no malice,” and he moved towards the door. Then he turned. “Would you mind telling me if there’s anybody else.”
“Mr. Leahurst,” said Emmie, blushing hotly, “I don’t think you ought to ask me that.”
“Then one question. You’re not hankering after that young Beckett?”