"All right." There was a breathlessness to her voice. "I've decided I want to marry you."
For what seemed like long minutes but were, he suspected, seconds only, Peter remained unmoving, with even the gentle motion of the glider stopped.
At last, with careful precision, he put down his coffee cup.
Marsha coughed, then changed the cough to a nervous laugh. "If you want to run, the stairs are that way."
"No," he said. "If I did that I'd never know why you said what you did just now."
"I'm not sure myself." She was looking directly ahead, out into the night, her face turned half away. He sensed that she was trembling. "Except I suddenly wanted to say it. And quite sure I should."
It was important, he knew, that whatever he next said to this impulsive girl should be with gentleness and consideration. He was also uncomfortably aware of a nervous constriction in his throat. Irrationally, he remembered something Christine had said this morning: Little Miss Preyscott bears as much resemblance to a child as a kitten to a tiger. But it would be fun I should think - for a man - to be eaten up. The comment was unfair of course, even harsh. But it was true that Marsha was not a child, nor should she be treated like one.
"Marsha, you scarcely know me, or I you."
"Do you believe in instinct?"
"To a point, yes."
"I had an instinct about you. From the very first moment." Initially her voice had faltered, now she steadied it. "Most times my instincts have been right."
He reminded her gently, "About Stanley Dixon, Lyle Dumaire?"
"I had the right instincts. I didn't follow them, that's all. This time I have."
"But instinct may still be wrong."
"You can always be wrong, even when you wait a long time." Marsha turned, facing him directly. As her eyes searched his own, he was aware of a strength of character he had not observed before. "My father and mother knew each other fifteen years before they married. My mother once told me that everyone they knew said it would be the perfect match. As it turned out, it was the worst. I know, I was in the middle."
He was silent, not knowing what to say.
"It taught me some things. So did something else. You saw Anna tonight?"
"Yes.
"When she was seventeen she was forced to marry a man she'd met just once before. It was a kind of family contract, in those days they did that kind of thing."
Watching Marsha's face, he said, "Go on."
"The day before the wedding, Anna wept all night. But she was married just the same, and stayed married for forty-six years. Her husband died last year, they lived with us here. He was the kindest, sweetest man I've ever known. If ever there was a perfect marriage it belonged to them."
He hesitated, not wishing to score a debater's point, but objected, "Anna didn't follow her instinct. If she had, she'd not have married."
"I know. I'm simply saying there isn't any guaranteed way, and instinct can be as good a guide as any." There was a pause, then Marsha said, "I know I could make you love me, in time."
Absurdly, unexpectedly, he felt a sense of excitement. The idea was preposterous, of course; a romantic product of a girlish imagery. He, who had suffered from his own romantic notions in the past, was qualified to know. Yet was he? Was every situation an aftermath of what had gone before?
Was Marsha's proposal so fantastic really? He had a sudden, irrational conviction that what she said might well be true.
He wondered what the reaction of the absent Mark Preyscott would be.
"If you're thinking about my father"
Startled, he said, "How did you know?"
"Because I'm beginning to know you."
He breathed deeply, with a sense of inhaling rarefied air. "What about your father?"
"I expect he'd be worried to begin with, and he'd probably fly home in a hurry. I wouldn't mind that." Marsha smiled. "But he always listens to reason and I know I could convince him. Besides, he'd like you. I know the kind of people he admires most, and you're one."
"Well," he said, not knowing whether to be amused or serious, "at least that's a relief."
"There's something else. It isn't important to me, but it would be to him. You see, I know - and my father would too - that someday you'll be a big success with hotels, and maybe own your own. Not that I care about that.
It's you I want." She finished breathlessly.
"Marsha," Peter said gently, "I don't ... I simply don't know what to say."
There was a pause in which he could sense Marsha's confidence leave her.
It was as if, earlier, she had bolstered her self-assurance with a reserve of will, but now the reserve was gone and boldness with it. In a small, uncertain voice she said, "You think I've been silly. You'd better say so and get it over."
He assured her, "I don't believe you've been silly. If more people, including me, were honest like you.
"You mean you don't mind?"
"Far from minding, I'm moved and overwhelmed."
"Then don't say any more!" Marsha leaped to her feet, her hands held out toward him. He took them and stood facing her, their fingers interlaced.
