The New Yorker was a supple diplomatist. If Beatrice had chosen this place and hour to become engaged to him, he had no objection in the world. The endearments that usually marked such an event could wait. But he was not quite sure of his ground.
His lids narrowed a trifle. "Do you mean that you've changed your mind?"
"Have you?" she asked quickly with a sidelong slant of eyes at him.
"Do I act as though I had?"
"You don't help a fellow out much, Clary," she complained with a laugh not born of mirth. "I'll never propose to you again."
"I'm still very much at your service, Bee."
"Does that mean you still think you want me?"
"I don't think. I know it."
"Quite sure?"
"Quite sure."