"What can they say?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.
"Well, of course, they will talk about our being in the tree
together--and--all that kind of thing, you know. They will make
things as unpleasant for us as they can. They may want you to give
evidence, and all that sort of thing--and I thought, perhaps you
mightn't like it."
She froze into dignity at once. "I certainly shouldn't like it,"
she said. "About being in the tree, that does not matter, of course,
but I hope you will keep my name out of the affair altogether. I
must ask you to do that for me."
Then he rushed on his fate. Many a time he had pictured how he would
wait till they were alone together in the garden on some glorious
moonlit night, and he would take her hand, and tell her how much
he loved her; and now, seeing the girl standing before him flushed
with insulted dignity, he suddenly found himself gasping out, in
what seemed somebody's else's voice, "Couldn't we--look here, Miss
Grant, won't you be engaged to me? Then it won't matter what they
say."
He tried to take her hand, but she drew back, white to the lips.
"No, no; let me go; let me go," she said. Then the colour came back
to her face, and she drew herself up, and spoke slowly and cuttingly: "I thank you very much for what you have just said. But I really
think that I shall be able to put up with anything these people
may choose to say about me. It won't hurt me, and I shouldn't like
you to sacrifice yourself to save me from the talk of such people.
Let us go back to the house, please."
He stared helplessly at her, and could not find his voice for a
moment. At last he blurted out: "It's not because of that. I don't care about them any more than
you do. Don't think it's that, Miss Grant. Why--"
"Let us go back to the house, please," she said quietly, "and don't
say anything more about it. And whatever happens, I must ask you
to keep my name out of the affair altogether. You'll do that, won't
you? Let us go back now, if you don't mind."
They walked back in silence. He looked at her once or twice, but
her face was stern and rigid, and she would not give him even one
glance. At the door she gave him her hand, with a matter-of-fact
"I will say good-night now," and disappeared into her room, where
she threw herself on the bed and sobbed bitterly; for the truth
was that she was very, very fond of him. She, too, had built her
little castles in the air as to what she would say and do when he
put the momentous question. Girls do foresee these things, somehow;
although they do pretend to be astonished when the time arrives.