paying her that compliment, no matter what she may say to the contrary.
Particularly when he does not seek to annoy her by his admiration.

So long as Mr. Bush confined himself to affable conversation, to sundry
gifts of hothouse flowers, and only allowed his feelings outlet in
certain telltale glances when he thought she could not see. Hazel felt
disinclined to fly from what was at worst a possibility.

Thus the third month of her tenure drifted by, and beyond the telltale
glances aforesaid, Mr. Bush remained tentatively friendly and nothing
more. Hazel spent her Sundays as she had spent them for a year
past--with Jack Barrow; sometimes rambling afoot in the country or in
the park, sometimes indulging in the luxury of a hired buggy for a
drive. 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. I want you to be my
wife. Will you?"

"I'm awfully sorry," Hazel stammered. She was just the least bit
frightened. The man who stared at her with burning eyes and spoke to
her in a voice that quivered with emotion was so different from the
calm, repressed individual she had known as her employer. "Why,
you're----" The thing that was uppermost in her mind, and what she
came near saying, was: "You're old enough to be my father." And beside
him there instantly flashed a vision of Jack Barro