He swung me once round the room, and then through an open window into the garden.

“I am sorry that I haven’t had more time to look after you today.  Come round into my room.  I want to strike a bargain with you,” were his words.

I followed him in the direction of a detached building in the garden.  This was Harold’s particular domain.  It contained three rooms—­one a library and office, another an arsenal and deed-room, and the third, into which he led me, was a sort of sitting-room, containing a piano, facilities for washing, a table, easy-chairs, and other things.  As we entered I noticed the lamp, burning brightly on the table, gleamed on the face of a clock on the wall, which pointed to half past ten.

We stood beside the table, some distance apart, and, facing me, he said: 

“It is no use of me making a long yarn about nothing.  I’m sure you know what I want to say better than I do myself.  You always are wonderfully smart at seeing through a fellow.  Tell me, will it be yes or no?”

This was an experience in love.  He did not turn red or white, or yellow or green, nor did he tremble or stammer, or cry or laugh, or become fierce or passionate, or tender or anything but just himself, as I had always known him.  He displayed no more emotion than had he been inviting me to a picnic.  This was not as I had pictured a man would tell his love, or as I had read of it, heard of it, or wished it should be.  A curious feeling—­disappointment, perhaps—­stole over me.  His matter-of-fact coolness flabbergasted me.

“Is this not rather sudden?  You have given me no intimation of your intentions,” I stammered.

“I didn’t think it wise to dawdle any longer,” he replied.  “Surely you have known what I’ve been driving at ever since I first clapped eyes on you.  There’s plenty of time.  I don’t want to hurry you, only I want you to be engaged to me for safety.”

He spoke as usual in his slow twangy drawl, which would have proclaimed his Colonial nationality anywhere.  No word of love was uttered to me and none requested from me.

I put it down to his conceit.  I thought that he fancied he could win any woman, and me without the least palaver or trouble.  I felt annoyed.  I said aloud, “I will become engaged to you;” to myself I added, “Just for a little while, the more to surprise and take the conceit out of you when the time comes.”

Now that I understand his character I know that it was not conceit, but just his quiet unpretending way.  He had meant all his actions towards me, and had taken mine in return.

“Thank you, Sybylla, that is all I want.  We will talk about the matter more some other time.  I will go up to Caddagat next Sunday.  You have surprised me nearly out of my wits,” here he laughed.  “I never dreamt you would say yes so easily, just like any other girl.  I thought I would have a lot of trouble with you.”