"Good heavens, Midwinter," he exclaimed,
"who could suspect me of that?"
"Nobody, Allan, who really knows you."
"The major knows me. The major is the last man in the world to
misunderstand me. All I want him to do is to help me (if he can)
to speak about a delicate subject to Miss Gwilt, without hurting
her feelings. Can anything be simpler between two gentlemen?"
Instead of replying, Midwinter, still speaking as constrainedly
as ever, asked a question on his side. "Do you mean to tell Major
Milroy," he said, "what your intentions really are toward Miss
Gwilt?"
Allan's manner altered. He hesitated, and looked confused.
"I have been thinking of that," he replied; "and I mean to feel
my way first, and then tell him or not afterward, as matters turn
out?"
A proceeding so cautious as this was too strikingly inconsistent
with Allan's character not to surprise any one who knew him.
Midwinter showed his surprise plainly.
"You forget that foolish flirtation of mine with Miss Milroy,"
Allan went on, more and more confusedly. "The major may have
noticed it, and may have thought I meant--well, what I didn't
mean. It might be rather awkward, mightn't it, to propose to his
face for his governess instead of his daughter?"
He waited for a word of answer, but none came.
Pages:
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614