Mr. Pomfret greeted this fine old bromide with a dreary snort.
‘I suppose,’ he said, in a savage tone, ‘there’s somebody else.’
‘I don’t know that you’ve any right to ask that.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mr. Pomfret, affronted. ‘I’ve no right to ask you anything. I ought to apologise for asking you to marry me. And for making a scene in front of the Proggins—in fact, for existing. I’m exceedingly sorry.’
Very clearly, the only balm that could in the least soothe the wounded vanity of Mr. Pomfret would be the assurance that there was somebody else. But Harriet was not prepared to make any such admission; and besides, whether there was anybody else or not, nothing could make the notion of marrying Mr. Pomfret anything but preposterous. She begged him to take a reasonable view of the matter;
