"And now," he said, "give me your answer. Will you marry me?"
He felt her hand move convulsively in his own. She was trembling still.
He bent towards her, gently drawing her. "It is 'Yes,' Phyllis," he
whispered. "It must be 'Yes.'"
And after a moment, falteringly, through white lips, she answered him.
"It is--'Yes.'"
* * * * *
"And you accepted him! Oh, Phyllis!"
The younger sister looked at her with eyes of wide astonishment, almost
of reproach. They were two of a family of ten; a country clergyman's
family that had for its support something under three hundred pounds a
year. Phyllis, the eldest girl, worked for her living as a private
secretary and had only lately returned home for a brief holiday.
Lord Wyverton, who had seen her once or twice in town, had actually
followed her thither to pursue his courtship. She had not believed
herself to be the attraction. She had persistently refused to believe him
to be in earnest until that afternoon, when the unbelievable thing had
actually happened and he had definitely asked her to be his wife. Even
then, sitting alone with her sister in the bedroom they shared, she could
scarcely bring herself to realize what had happened to her.
"Yes," she said; "I accepted him of course--of course. My dear Molly, how
could I refuse?"
Molly made no reply, but her silence was somehow tragic.
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