“Nonsense! Mr. Barclugh,” protested Mollie. “You ought to have better sense,” while she good-naturedly laughed at the evident discomfiture of her lover.
Barclugh now colored, for he felt sheepish in his awkward position. In another instant, however, he smiled, himself, and they rode down the banks of the Delaware discussing pleasantly the beauties of the landscape.
Barclugh recognized the fact that the fates were against him and he concluded that the better part of valor was to wait for a more propitious time. However, something within told him that the present was his opportunity, for he thought:
“He who hesitates is lost.”
The road now took them over the Wingohocking as the crimson setting of the sun shone over the rippling water and the autumnal hues of the landscape mellowed the disappointment in his breast.
When the avenue of hemlocks at Dorminghurst was passed and he led Mollie from her horse up to the portico, Miss Mollie smiled more than graciously as she said:
“Now, Mr. Barclugh, I shall depend upon you at my party for the minuet.”
“Thank you, Miss Greydon,” replied Barclugh, bowing very low, “but don’t forget that I shall claim my answer in another week.”