Norma looked at the imperturbable face, half touched by his unsuspected humanity, half angered by his assurance.
“Are you by any chance making me a formal demand in marriage?” she asked.
“And at last you have found some one who would meet your requirements for the decorative wife?”
“I found her last summer in Scotland,” replied Weever, with a little bow. “My countrymen have a habit of finding quickly what they want. They generally get it. I could n't in this particular instance, as you were engaged to another man.”
“I beg your pardon. I heard the engagement was broken off.”
“Not at all. In fact only yesterday was it settled that we should be married at Easter.”
“Having gone so far on a false assumption,” remarked Weever, placidly, “may I go without rudeness a step farther? I do not dream of asking you to throw over King--if my heart were not in Connecticut, I might--but I'll say this, if you will allow me, Miss Hardacre: I don't believe you will ever marry Morland King. I have a presentiment that you're going to marry me--chiefly because I've planned it, and my plans mostly come out straight. Anyway you are the only woman in the world I should ever marry, and if at any time there should be a chance for me, a word, a hint, a message through the telephone to buy you a pug dog--or anything--would bring me devotedly to your feet. Don't forget it.”
It was impossible to be angry with a bloodless thing that spoke like a machine. It was also unnecessary to use the conventional terms of regretful gratitude in which maidens in their mercy wrap refusals.
“I'll remember it with pleasure, if you like,” she said with a half-smile. “But tell me why you don't think I shall marry Mr. King. I don't believe in your presentiments.”
She caught his eye, and they remained for some seconds looking hard at each other. She saw that he had his well-defined reasons.
“You can tell me exactly what is in your mind,” she said slowly; “you and I seem to understand each other.”
“If you understand me, what is the use of compromising speech, my dear lady?”
“As a statesman I can't say that I do,” replied Weever, with the puckering of the faint lines round his eyes that passed for a smile. “That is what astonishes me in your English political life--the little one need talk and the little one need do. In America the politician is the orator. He must move in an atmosphere of words half a mile thick. Wherever he goes he must scream himself hoarse. But here--”