Usually they went alone; occasionally with a party of young
people like themselves.
But Mr. Bush took her breath away at a time and in a manner totally
unexpected. He finished dictating a batch of letters one afternoon,
and sat tapping on his desk with a pencil. Hazel waited a second or
two, expecting him to continue, her eyes on her notes, and at the
unbroken silence she looked up, to find him staring fixedly at her.
There was no mistaking the expression on his face. Hazel flushed and
shrank back involuntarily. She had hoped to avoid that. It could not
be anything but unpleasant.
She had small chance to indulge in reflection, for at her first
self-conscious move he reached swiftly and caught her hand.
"Hazel," he said bluntly, "will you marry me?"
Miss Weir gasped. Coming without warning, it dumfounded her. And
while her first natural impulse was to answer a blunt "No," she was
flustered, and so took refuge behind a show of dignity.
"Mr. Bush!" she protested, and tried to release her hand.
But Mr. Bush had no intention of allowing her to do that.
"I'm in deadly earnest," he said. "I've loved you ever since that
Sunday I saw you in the park feeding the swans.
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