"Ah, yes, I do not doubt. But—I was not brought up so," Rose said, hesitating over her words. "At home, Sunday is such a special, set-apart, happy day. We never take it for common things."
"It would be a very special and happy day for me, if you would take the walk," said Bouché. "Of course you would count it 'common' doings to go with me, any day."
"It is not fair to twist my words," said Rose, looking troubled.
"Then if it would be uncommon, you can go. You are throwing down opportunities, Miss Rose. I'll take you to some remote, far-wilderness corner, and you shall preach to me till the drum beats. I'm as meek as skim-milk on Sunday. Why, if you only tell me to take my cap and go to chapel, I shall do it."
"But you have to do that."
"You'd better believe I wouldn't be there else," said Bouché. "But I'll listen to you a quarter longer than we give the chaplain."
"I do not think you will—for I shall not speak, on Sunday," said Rose.
"Not speak! Turning into 'a sweet, silent Carthusian,' and thinking up hard things to say to me on Monday."
Rose did not at once answer.
"Mr. Bouché," she said, "I think you make a great mistake about the chapel."