“I am still engaged,” said Norma.
“I beg your pardon. I heard the engagement was broken off.”
“Not at all. In fact only yesterday was it settled that we should be married at Easter.”
“Having gone so far on a false assumption,” remarked Weever, placidly, “may I go without rudeness a step farther? I do not dream of asking you to throw over King—if my heart were not in Connecticut, I might—but I'll say this, if you will allow me, Miss Hardacre: I don't believe you will ever marry Morland King. I have a presentiment that you're going to marry me—chiefly because I've planned it, and my plans mostly come out straight. Anyway you are the only woman in the world I should ever marry, and if at any time there should be a chance for me, a word, a hint, a message through the telephone to buy you a pug dog—or anything—would bring me devotedly to your feet. Don't forget it.”
It was impossible to be angry with a bloodless thing that spoke like a machine. It was also unnecessary to use the conventional terms of regretful gratitude in which maidens in their mercy wrap refusals.
“I'll remember it with pleasure, if you like,” she said with a half-smile. “But tell me why you don't think I shall marry Mr. King. I don't believe in your presentiments.”
She caught his eye, and they remained for some seconds looking hard at each other. She saw that he had his well-defined reasons.
“You can tell me exactly what is in your mind,” she said slowly; “you and I seem to understand each other.”
“If you understand me, what is the use of compromising speech, my dear lady?”
“You don't believe in Morland?”