She shook her head.
He swung fully round on her from his end of the bench. “Think,” he commanded.
As if with a premonitory notion of what he meant, she answered coldly: “What’s the good o’ me thinkin’? I’ve got nothin’ to do with it.”
“You might have.”
“I can’t imagine what, unless it’d be––” Realizing what she had been about to say, she broke off in confusion, coloring to the eyes.
He nodded. “I see you understand. I want you to come off somewhere and marry me.”
She took it more calmly than if she hadn’t thought him mad. “But—but you said you’d be—be goin’ to the devil.”
“Well?”
His look, his tone, conveyed the idea, which penetrated to her mind but slowly. When it did, the surging color became a flush, hot and painful.