“And you!” he retorted calmly. “Let’s sit down and talk over our passion.”
Marian flushed and gave something like a pettish stamp of her small foot. “I won’t!” she cried.
“Then don’t!” he returned, with a laugh.
However, she seemed to think better of it, for she did come slowly to the couch and perched herself on the end opposite Stacey. She sat there gazing at him, one foot on the upholstery, elbow on knee, her small pointed chin resting in her cupped hand.
Stacey, still smiling, considered her. “You’re perfect like that,” he said sincerely. “Some Greek sculptor of the Fourth Century—no, the Third—ought to have carved you.”
“Stacey, don’t you love me any longer?” she asked softly.
“Do you love me?”
She started up. “You’re horrid!” she cried furiously. “Each time that I ask you a question you ask me one in return. I’ve waited for you—nearly five years—and this afternoon I looked forward to your coming and sent everybody out of the house, and then when you come you look at me as though I were an objet d’art and laugh at me—laugh coldly at me!”
“Not at you, Marian,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t laugh at you. I find I don’t know you at all. Come! Forgive me for being rude. Let’s talk everything over soberly.”
She sat down again and looked at him hostilely. “I see now why you didn’t write oftener,” she said haughtily. “I thought it was because you were too busy. Fancy!”