"Thank you." She was touched. It was unusual for Solly to show any emotion stronger than mild enthusiasm.
Then he said: "Will you marry me?"
She was flabbergasted. This was the last thing in the world she had expected. Men of Solly's class did not propose to girls like her. They seduced them, gave them money, kept them as mistresses, and had children by them, but they did not marry them. She was too astounded to speak.
Solly went on: "I'd give you anything you want. Please say yes."
Marriage to Solly! Maisie would be unbelievably rich for ever and ever. A soft bed every night, a blazing fire in every room of the house, and as much butter as she could eat. She would get up when she pleased, not when she had to. She would never be cold again, never hungry, never shabbily dressed, never weary.
The word "yes" trembled on the tip of her tongue.
She thought of April's tiny room in Soho, with its nest of mice in the wall; she thought of how the privy stank on warm days; she thought of the nights they went without dinner; she thought of how her feet ached after a day of walking the streets.
She looked at Solly. How hard could it be, to marry this man?
He said: "I love you so much, I'm just desperate for you."
He really did love her, she could tell.
And that was the trouble.
She did not love him.
He deserved better. He deserved a wife who really loved him, not a hard-hearted guttersnipe on the make. If she married him she would be cheating him. And he was too good for that.
She felt close to tears. She said: "You're the kindest, most gentle man I've ever met--"
"Don't say no, please?" he interrupted. "If you can't say yes, say nothing. Think about it, at least for a day, perhaps longer."
Maisie sighed. She knew she should turn him down, and it would have been easier to do so right away. But he was begging her. "I'll think about it," she said.
He beamed. "Thank you."
She shook her head ruefully. "Whatever happens, Solly, I believe I'll never be proposed to by a better man."
Section 2
