"Zeb, what's the matter with you?"
"Look here"—and he faced round sharply—"I loved you passing well."
"Well?" she asked, like a faint echo.
"I saw your eyes, just now. Don't lie."
"I won't."
"That's right. And now listen: if you marry me, I'll treat 'ee like a span'el dog. Fetch you shall, an' carry, for my pleasure. You shall be slave, an' I your taskmaster; an' the sweetness o' your love shall come by crushin', like trodden thyme. Shall I suit you?"
"I don't think you will."
"Then good-night to you."
"Good-night, Zeb. I don't fancy you'll suit me; but I'm not so sure as before you began to speak.".
There was no answer to this but the slamming of the front door.