And for what reason? Just
because I've co-come to ask Dorothy Andrews to change her name to
Mrs. Bob Yardsley; as if that were such an unlikely thing for her to
do. Gad! I'm almost inclined to despise myself. (Surveys himself
in the mirror at one end of the room. Then walking up to it and
peering intently at his reflection, he continues.) Bah! you coward!
Afraid of a woman--a sweet little woman like Dorothy. You ought to
be ashamed of yourself, Bob Yardsley. _She_ won't hurt you. Brace
up and propose like a man--like a real lover who'd go through fire
for her sake, and all that. Ha! That's easy enough to talk about,
but how shall I put it? That's the question. Let me see. How _do_
men do it? I ought to buy a few good novels and select the sort of
proposal I like; but not having a novel at hand, I must invent my
own. How will it be? Something like this, I fancy. (The portieres
are parted, and Jennie, the maid, enters. Yardsley does not observe
her entrance.) I'll get down on my knees. A man on his knees is a
pitiable object, and pity, they say, is akin to love. Maybe she'll
pity me, and after that--well, perhaps pity's cousin will arrive.
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