Canon Spratte, aware of his confusion, took his arm and led him to a more secluded place.
“Come and sit in the window, dear boy, and tell me what it is you wish to say.”
When the Canon desired to be charming, none could excel him. There was such a sympathetic warmth in his manner that, if you were not irritated by a slightly patronizing air, your heart never failed to go out to him.
“Have a cigarette,” he said, producing a golden case of considerable value. “Give me a match, there’s a good fellow.”
He beamed on the youth, but still Wroxham hesitated.
“You got my note, Canon?”
“Yes, yes. So charming of you to write to me. I’ve known you so long, dear boy—if there’s anything I can do for you, command me.”
Wroxham had often come with Lionel from Eton to spend part of his holidays in the Canon’s hospitable house.
“Well, the fact is—I want to ask Winnie to marry me, with your permission.”
Canon Spratte restrained the smile of triumph which struggled to gain possession of his mouth. When he answered, his manner was perfectly sympathetic, but somewhat grave as befitted the occasion.