IX

I don’t know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

“Marry me, Cynthia.”

Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

“Don’t be silly!”

I was a little annoyed.

“I’m not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a “funny dear.”

“It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, “but you know you don’t want to!”

“Yes, I do. I’ve got⁠—”

“Never mind what you’ve got. You don’t really want to⁠—and I don’t either.”

“Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”

“No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time. Goodbye, you’ve cheered me up very much.”