"Heaven knows I don't aspire to be any particular ornament to society,"
said Dick Kenyon modestly. "Never have; though I've been pretty well
everything else that you can think of, from cow-puncher to millionaire.
And I can tell you there's a dashed deal more fun in being the first
than the last of those. Still, I think I could make you comfortable if
you would have me; though, if you don't want to, just say so, and I'll
shunt till further notice."
It was thus that he made his proposal to the girl of his choice; and no
one, hearing it, would have guessed that beneath his calm, even
phlegmatic, exterior, the man was in a ferment of anxiety. He spoke with
a slight nasal twang that seemed to emphasise his deliberation, and his
face was mask-like in its composure. Of beauty he had none.
His eyes were extraordinarily blue, but the lids drooped over them so
heavily that his expression was habitually drowsy, even stolid. In
build, he was short and thick-set, like a bulldog; and there seemed to
be something of a bulldog's strength in the breadth of his chest, though
there was no hint of energy about him to warrant its development.
The girl he addressed did not look at him. She sat perfectly still, with
her hands fast clasped together, and her eyes, wide and despairing,
fixed upon the fire in front of her. She was wondering desperately how
long she could possibly endure it. Yet his last words were somehow not
what she had expected from this man whose manner always seemed to hint
that at least half of creation was at his sole disposal. They expressed
a consideration on his part that she had been far from anticipating. He
waited for an interval of several seconds for her to speak. He was
standing up on the hearthrug, his ill-proportioned figure thrown into
strong relief by the firelight behind him. At last, as she quite failed
to answer him, he drew a pace nearer to her.
"Don't mind me, Miss Trelevan," he said, in a drawl so exaggerated that
she thought it must be intentional. "Take your time. There's no hurry.
I've always thought it was a bit hard on a woman to expect her to answer
an offer of marriage offhand. Perhaps you'd rather write?"
"No," she said, rather breathlessly. "No!" Then, after a pause, still
more breathlessly: "Won't you sit down?"
He stepped away from her again, to her infinite relief, and sat down a
couple of yards away.
There ensued a most painful silence, during which the battle in the
girl's heart raged fiercely. Then at length she took her resolution in
both hands, and faced him. He was not looking at her. He sat quite
still, and she fancied that his eyes were closed; but when she spoke he
turned his head, and she realised that she had been mistaken.
"I can give you your answer now," she said, making the greatest effort
of her life. "It is--it is--yes."
She rose with the words, almost as if in preparation for headlong
flight. But Dick Kenyon kept his seat. He leaned forward a little, his
blue eyes lifted to her face.
"Your final word, Miss Trelevan?" he asked her, in his cool, easy twang.
She wrung her hands together with an unconscious gesture of despair.
"Yes," she said; and added feverishly: "of course."
"You think you've met the right man?" he pursued, his tone one of gentle
inquiry, as if he were speaking to a child.
She nodded. She was white to the lips.
"Yes," she said again.
He got up then with extreme deliberation.
"Well," he said, a curious smile flickering about his mouth, "that's
about the biggest surprise I've ever had. And I don't mind telling you
so. Sure now that you're not making a mistake?"
She uttered a little laugh that sounded hysterical.
"Oh, don't!" she said. "Don't! I have given you my answer!"
"And I'm to take you seriously?" questioned Kenyon. "Very well. I will.
But you mustn't be frightened."
He stretched out a steady hand, and laid it on her shoulder. She
quivered at his touch, but she did not attempt to resist.
"Don't be scared," he said very gently. "I know I'm as ugly as blazes;
at least, I've been told so, but there's nothing else to alarm you if
you can once get over that."
There was a note of quaint raillery in his voice. He did not try to draw
her to him. Yet she was conscious of a strength that did battle with her
half-instinctive aversion--a strength that might have compelled, but
preferred to attract.
Unwillingly, at length, she looked at him, meeting his eyes,
good-humouredly critical, watching her.
"I am not frightened," she said, with an effort. "It's only that--just
at first--till I get used to it--it feels rather strange."
There was unconscious pleading in her voice. He took his hand from her
shoulder, looking at her with his queer, speculative smile.
"I don't want to hustle you any," he said. "But if that's all the
trouble, I guess I know a remedy."
Violet drew back sharply.
"Oh, no!" she said. "No!"
She was terrified for the moment lest he should desire to put his remedy
to the test. But he made no movement in her direction, and another sort
of misgiving assailed her.
"Don't be vexed," she said unsteadily. "I--I know I'm despicable. But I
shall get over it--if you will give me time."
"Bless your heart, I'm not vexed," said Kenyon. "I'm only wondering,
don't you know, how you brought yourself to say 'Yes' to me. But no
matter, dear. I'm grateful all the same."
He held out his hand to her, and she laid hers nervously within it. She
could not meet his eyes any longer.
Kenyon stooped and put his lips to her cold fingers.
"Jove!" he said softly. "I'm in luck to-day."
And after that he sat down again, and began to behave like an ordinary
visitor.