“Grace,” I re-opened, “I’m not a county man an’ all that, you know. I’m not a Stoddy or a Ranjy, you know. Not a W. G., you know. I’m not a Toddles or an Archie, you know. You know that, Grace, don’t you?” “Oh, rats!” said Grace, figuring away more feverishly than ever. “Ah, but it’s not rats,” said I. “It’s not rats at all. It’s far too serious for rats, I can assure you, Grace. It’s something _very_ serious, Grace.” “That’s all right,” said Grace, with supreme indifference; and then, biting her pencil and puckering up her brow, she said: “How many times does fourteen go into ninety-seven? Quick!” “I’m not a ready-reckoner,” said I indignantly. “You are a jolly rotter, Dimmy, that’s what you are,” said Grace urbanely. “Thanks,” said I; “how nice!” Then, having felt the spur a bit, I took a headlong plunge almost before I knew what I was about. “Grace,” said I, “will you be my wife?” “I’ll be your anything,” said Grace, without looking up, and continuing her pencilling, “if you’ll just have the goodness to clear out and pull the door to gently. O-oh, I say! The Old Man’s average is forty-three now. He’s gone up nine places. He’s in front of Ranjy.” I beat my boots on the carpet incontinently. If this was the usual style of a girl when a man pays her the highest compliment within his power, God help all of us, say I. “Grace,” said I weakly, “I hope you’re listening.” “Hullo!” said Grace, searching frantically among her mass of telegrams, “they haven’t sent the Taunton yet. And where’s the jolly old Oval got to? It’s always late. They’re dreadfully slack to-night, though. Half a mind to write to Lord Salisbury about it.” “Grace,” said I, more weakly than before, “I don’t believe you _are_ listening. I--I--I’m asking you to be my--my wife.” I beg to be excused the poverty of my diction, but really if I had not spoken in the most unsophisticated fashion, I was rapidly getting into such a state of nerves that I do not think I should have spoken ever. “Grace,” I said again, as she had paid no heed, and this time thumping on the table with my hand, that her polite attention might be attracted somehow. “My wife--you--my wife--I want you to be my wife--see!” “Thanks awf’ly,” said Grace. “Awf’ly good--marvellously good. Dimmy, what a clever chap you are! Just let me set John Dixon straight, and then I’ll laugh. Positive I’ll laugh.” “Hang John Dixon!” “We shall do nothing of the kind,” said Grace. “He’s one o’ the best, is Johnny.” “Grace,” I said abjectly, “I--I’m proposing to you--want you to be my wife, you know. Most awf’ly obliged if you will, you know.” “All right, Dimmy; half a mo’. I’m certain that I’ll laugh. Thirteen from thirty leaves sixteen, don’t it?” Her pencil continued in its scratching at a most outrageous rate. “Pononner,” I repeated, “if you’ll have me, Grace, pononner I shall be most awf’ly, beastly obliged, don’t you know!”