The other hand, down at her side, laid hold of the
edge of the bench and gripped it rather tightly. She began to talk about
the old garden, as it lay before them, its straggling paths and beds of
flowers mere patches of shadow, dark and light. He answered, now and
then, in an absent sort of way, as if his mind were upon something else,
and he only partly heard. She spoke of "Sunny Farm"--the children's
hospital in the country--of Burns and Ellen and Bob--and then, suddenly,
with a sense of the uselessness of trying all by herself to make small
talk under conditions of growing constraint, she fell silent. He let the
silence endure for a little space, then broke it bluntly.
"I'm glad," he said, in the deep, quiet voice she remembered well, "that
you will give me a chance. What is the use of pretending that I have
brought you here to talk of other people? I have something to say to you,
and you know it. I can't lead up to it by any art, for it has become
merely a fact which it is your right to know. You should have known it
long ago."
He stopped for a minute. She was absolutely still beside him, except for
the hand that gripped the edge of the bench. That took a fresh hold.
When he spoke again, his voice, though still quiet, showed tension.
"Before I saw you the last time, last spring, I meant to ask you to marry
me.
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