Listening Valley by D. E. Stevenson Page A

sure.”
    â€œHow much do you like me?” Mr. Norman wanted to know.
    That was easy to answer. She smiled at him. “Oh, a lot,” she said.
    â€œEnough to marry me?” he inquired.
    At first Tonia was certain she had misunderstood the words—the wind was blowing and the seagulls were making a terrific noise—but when she looked at him she saw by his face that she had heard the words correctly and he really meant them. She was dumb with surprise. She was distressed and embarrassed and rather frightened.
    â€œSupposing we sit down in the shelter of this rock and talk about it,” suggested Mr. Norman.
    They sat down. Tonia stared at the seagulls with unseeing eyes. There was a lump of misery in her throat. She listened to Mr. Norman talking, but it was quite impossible to reply.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” he was saying. “We’ll never speak of it again if you would rather not. You have only to say no, but I hope you’ll think about it seriously first. We like each other, don’t we? We’re happy when we’re together and we understand each other so well. Of course I know I’m too old. I would give anything on earth to be the right age for you, Antonia.”
    He hesitated. There was so much he could offer her, but he did not want to bribe her. He could offer her travel—he knew she wanted to see the world. He could offer her jewels and furs and pretty frocks. He could remind her that she was unhappy at home—unappreciated—and that her life was dull and purposeless. Mr. Norman said none of this. He just waited. It seemed a long time to him.
    â€œI don’t…know,” said Tonia at last, twisting her hands together. “I never thought…of getting married…to anyone.”
    â€œThink of it now,” suggested her companion.
    â€œI’m trying to think,” said Tonia miserably. “Perhaps I’m frightened or something. It isn’t that I don’t like you.”
    â€œThat’s something, anyhow,” said Mr. Norman, rather grimly. “We’ll leave it like that, shall we? You can think it over. There’s no hurry at all. Meantime perhaps you could call me Robert—unless you’d rather not.”
    Tonia felt it would be quite impossible to call him Robert, but she could not say so. She said nothing at all.
    The day was spoiled, of course. The sky was just as blue, but it gave Tonia no pleasure at all; there was no pleasure in anything. They walked back to the car, and as they went, Mr. Norman—no, Robert—talked quite cheerfully of ordinary things. He told his companion about a bottle he had bought at a small shop in the Grassmarket…and presently Tonia made an effort and pulled herself together and answered him quite naturally; but it was not the same as before, and she couldn’t, no, she simply couldn’t call him Robert.
    ***
    It was late when Tonia got home and Mr. and Mrs. Melville had started dinner without her. She smoothed her hair and washed her hands and appeared in the dining room quite breathless with haste, looking and feeling extremely guilty.
    â€œYou’re late,” said Mrs. Melville. “Really, Tonia, I think you might make an effort to be on time for meals. We’ve finished our soup; you can have some fried sole. I wish—”
    â€œI wish you would tell your cook to have the fat boiling ,” interposed Mr. Melville. “The fat should be absolutely boiling, with a blue haze rising from the pan, before the fillets are put in. Then the fish would be crisp and tasty instead of greasy and flabby—I can’t eat this stuff.”
    â€œThere’s nothing the matter with the fish. You’re too particular,” replied Mrs. Melville with asperity.
    Mr. Melville laughed mirthlessly.
    â€œWhy are you laughing, Henry?”
    â€œBecause, like all women, you are illogical. If the fat was boiling and there’s nothing