Julie sat down on the bed and heaved a mock sigh.  “What incredible creatures are men!” she exclaimed.  “Must I mean everything I say, Solomon?  Is there no difference between this flat and that miserable old hotel in Caudebec?  And last, but not least, have you promised to forsake all other and cleave unto me as long as we both shall live?  If you had promised it, I’d know you couldn’t possibly keep it; but as it is, I have hopes.”

This was too much for Peter.  He dropped into the position that she had grown to love to see him in, and he put his arms round her waist, looking up at her laughingly.  “But you will marry me, Julie, won’t you?” he demanded.

Before his eyes, a lingering trace of that old look crept back into her face.  She put her hands beneath his chin, and said no word, till he could stand it no longer.

“Julie, Julie, my darling,” he said, “you must.”

“Must, Peter?” she queried, a little wistfully he thought.

“Yes, must; but say you want to, say you will, Julie!”

“I want to, Peter,” she said—­“oh, my dear, you don’t know, you can’t know, how much.  The form is nothing to me, but I want you—­if I can keep you.”

“If you can keep me!” echoed Peter, and it was as if an ice-cold finger had suddenly been laid on his heart.  For one second he saw what might be.  But he banished it.  “What!” he exclaimed.  “Cannot you trust me, Julie?  Don’t you know I love you?  Don’t you know I want to make you the very centre of my being, Julie?”

“I know, dearest,” she whispered, and he had never heard her speak so before.  “You want, that is one thing; you can, that is another.”

Peter stared up at her.  He felt like a little child who kneels at the feet of a mother whom it sees as infinitely loving, infinitely wise, infinitely old.  And, like a child, he buried his head in her lap.  “Oh, Julie,” he said, “you must marry me.  I want you so that I can’t tell you how much.  I don’t know what you mean.  Say,” he said, looking up again and clasping her tightly—­“say you’ll marry me, Julie!”

She sprang up with a laugh.  “Peter,” she said, “you’re Mid-Victorian.  You are actually proposing to me upon your knees.  If I could curtsy or faint I would, but I can’t.  Every scrap of me is modern, down to Venns’ cami-knickers that you wouldn’t let me talk about.  Let’s go and eat kippers; I’m dying for them.  Come on, old Solomon.”

He got up more slowly, half-smiling, for who could resist Julie in that mood?  But he made one more effort.  He caught her hand.  “But just say ‘Yes’ Julie,” he said—­“just ‘Yes.’”

She snatched her hand away.  “Maybe I will tell you on Monday morning,” she said, and ran out of the room.