The angry color poured into her cheeks. She clenched her hands till the nails bit her palms. "I think you're the most hateful man I ever met," she cried passionately. His easy smile taunted her. "Oh, no, you don't. You just think you think it. Now, I'm goin' to light a shuck. I'll be sayin' good-bye, Miss Beatrice, until you send for me." "And that will be never," she flung at him. He rose, bowed, and walked out of the room. The street door closed behind him. Beatrice bit her lip to keep from breaking down before she reached her room. CHAPTER XIX A LADY WEARS A RING Clarendon Bromfield got the shock of his life that evening. Beatrice proposed to him. It was at the Roberson dinner-dance, in the Palm Room, within sight but not within hearing of a dozen other guests. She camouflaged what she was doing with occasional smiles and ripples of laughter intended to deceive the others present, but her heart was pounding sixty miles an hour. Bromfield was not easily disconcerted. He prided himself on his aplomb. It was hard to get behind his cynical, decorous smile, the mask of a suave and worldly-wise Pharisee of the twentieth century. But for once he was amazed. The orchestra was playing a lively fox trot and he thought that perhaps he had not caught her meaning. "I beg your pardon." Miss Whitford laced her fingers round her knee and repeated. It was as though rose leaves had brushed the ivory of her cheeks and left a lovely stain there. Her eyes were hard and brilliant as diamonds. "I was wondering when you are going to ask me again to marry you." Since she had given a good deal of feminine diplomacy to the task of keeping him at a reasonable distance, Bromfield was naturally surprised. "That's certainly a leading question," he parried, "What are you up to, Bee? Are you spoofing me?" "I'm proposing to you," she explained, with a flirt of her hand and an engaging smile toward a man and a girl who had just come into the Palm Room. "I don't suppose I do it very well because I haven't had your experience. But I'm doing the best I can." The New Yorker was a supple diplomatist. If Beatrice had chosen this place and hour to become engaged to him, he had no objection in the world. The endearments that usually marked such an event could wait. But he was not quite sure of his ground. His lids narrowed a trifle. "Do you mean that you've changed your mind?" "Have you?" she asked quickly with a sidelong slant of eyes at him. "Do I act as though I had?" "You don't help a fellow out much, Clary," she complained with a laugh not born of mirth. "I'll never propose to you again." "I'm still very much at your service, Bee." "Does that mean you still think you want me?" "I don't think. I know it." "Quite sure?" "Quite sure." "Then you're on," she told him with a little nod. "Thank you, kind sir."