Ida sat listening to the stumbling words and awkward phrases which were whispered from the back of her, but there was something in Charles Westmacott's clumsiness of speech which was more moving than the words of the most eloquent of pleaders. He paused, he stammered, he caught his breath between the words, and he blurted out in little blunt phrases all the hopes of his heart. If love had not come to her yet, there was at least pity and sympathy, which are nearly akin to it. Wonder there was also that one so weak and frail as she should shake this strong man so, should have the whole course of his life waiting for her decision. Her left hand was on the cushion at her side. He leaned forward and took it gently in his own. She did not try to draw it back from him.
"May I have it," said he, "for life?"
"Oh, do attend to your steering," said she, smiling round at him; "and don't say any more about this to-day. Please don't!"
"When shall I know, then?"
"Oh, to-night, to-morrow, I don't know. I must ask Clara. Talk about something else."
And they did talk about something else; but her left hand was still enclosed in his, and he knew, without asking again, that all was well.