“Yes, you are so devilishly tantalizing—­I beg your pardon, but you don’t chuck yourself at a fellow’s head like the other girls.”

I felt I was “chucking myself at his head”—­horrible phrase—­at that very moment, but as speech is given us to conceal our thoughts, I said, “No, indeed!”

“Ambrosine—­” (Oh, how his saying my name jarred and made me creep!) “Er—­you know I am jolly fond of you.  If you’ll marry me you’ll not have to dust any more beastly old china, I promise you.”

I have never had a tooth out—­fortunately, mine are all very white and sound—­but I have always heard the agony goes on growing until the final wrench, and then all is over.  I feel I know now what the sensation is.  I could have screamed, but when he finished speaking I felt numb.  I was incapable of answering.

“I’ve generally been able to buy all I’ve wanted,” he went on, “but I never wanted a wife before.”  He laughed nervously.  That was a straw for me.

“Do you want to buy me?” I said, “Because, if it is only a question of that, it perhaps could be managed.”

“Oh, I say—­I never meant that!” he blustered, “Oh, you know I love you like anything, and I want you to love me.”

“That is just it,” I said, quite low.

I felt too mean, I could not pretend I loved him.  I must tell the truth, and then, if he would not have me—­me—­Ambrosine de Calincourt Athelstan!—­why, then, vulgarly dramatic or no, I should have to jump into the river to make things easy for grandmamma.

“What is ’just it’?” he asked.

“I do not love you.”

His face fell.

“I kind of thought you didn’t,” he faltered, the bluster gone; “but”—­cheering up—­“of course you will in time, if you will only marry me.”

“I don’t think I ever shall,” I managed to whisper; “but if you like to marry me on that understanding, you may.”

He climbed through the window and put his arms round me.

“Darling!” he said, and kissed me deliberately.

Oh, the horror of it!  I shut my eyes, and in the emotion of the moment I bent the bow on the top of the frame of Ambrosine Eustasie.

Then, dragging myself from his embrace and stuttering with rage, “How dare you!” I gasped.  “How dare you!”

He looked sulky and offended.

“You said you would marry me—­what is a fellow to understand?”

“You are to understand that I will not be mauled and—­and kissed like—­like Hephzibah at the back door,” I said, with freezing dignity, my head in the air.

“Hoity-toity!” (hideous expression!) “What airs you give yourself!  But you look so deuced pretty when you are angry!” I did not melt, but stood on the defensive.

He became supplicating again.

“Ambrosine, I love you—­don’t be cross with me.  I won’t make you angry again until you are used to me.  Ambrosine, say you forgive me.”  He took my hand.  His hands are horrid to touch—­coarse and damp.  I shuddered involuntarily.