"Hazel," he said gently, "I am so anxious. I should be so grateful to you if you would stand up and—and give me your undivided attention, just for two minutes." The girl complied, reluctant, wondering, half uneasy at the appeal in his voice, half curious. She stood before him with folded hands and waited. Paul came a step nearer. "Hazel, it _is_ a usual question to ask, when a man loves a girl as I love you, with all his heart, with all his soul; when he feels he must have her love, or live without it in misery all his days. Then he _must_ ask her if she could ever love him." For the first time Hazel looked up in his face, her own paling. "Is this—is this a _proposal_?" she asked, awe and solemnity widening and darkening her eyes. "Do you mean—you want me to—to actually _marry_ you?" Paul’s lips twitched at the corners. "Yes," he said stoutly. "Tell me—tell me that you will." There was a pause, passed in agony by Paul, in amazed reflection by Hazel. "Child, answer me," he said at length hoarsely, possessing himself of her hands. "I might, after years and years," she said consideringly. "But, Mr. Charteris, I never dreamed you were a—that you felt like that. You are not at all a usual sort." Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his looks, his sighs, his serenades. How troublesome he was to manage; how he would always try to get her to himself, when she was longing for the society of others; how he would hold her hand too long at every possible opportunity. That was the lover one read of in stories, one saw depicted in pictures. But—but she began to acknowledge to herself that it was possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his face, his eyes all strenuous, all—all. And he had this in common with the lover of her ideas: he held her hands—both! as if he would never let them go. Hazel tried to free her hands. "Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you love me." Silence fell between them. "If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her words, "does it mean I must—does it mean I have got to marry you?" "It would mean that some day you might love me enough to like to marry me," Paul answered boldly and simply. "But never mind that now, Hazel. Just tell me whether you love me, even—even a little, and I will wait so patiently for that little to grow." Again she fell to reflecting. "I am fond of you," she said earnestly, "and, yes, perhaps you could call it—call it—just a very little, you know. But I don’t know why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and now will you please let go my hands?" "Then you care for me—a little?" the young man asked joyfully. "Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then, timidly, half in exultation, half in fear, "Am I an engaged woman now?" she asked.