“Oh, be quiet!” she interrupted angrily. “And the garden, I suppose, should all have been prepared for us?”
“Certainly it should have been all dug up,” he declared, “and not only that little bit where you have your roses.”
“Of course,” she answered sarcastically, “and asparagus beds made, I suppose, and standard roses planted!”
“I think, Miss Bultiwell,” he ventured, “that you might allow me the privilege of having the place made as attractive as possible for you.”
She glanced back towards the house. Mrs. Bultiwell, well pleased with herself, was still lingering. Sybil conducted their visitor firmly towards the gate.
“Mr. Pratt,” she said, “I will try and not visit these things upon you; but answer me this question. Have you given my mother any indication whatever of your—your ridiculous feelings towards me?”
“Your mother gave me no opportunity,” he replied. “She was too busy talking about the house.”
“Thank goodness for that, anyhow! Please understand, Mr. Pratt, that so far as I am concerned you are not a welcome visitor here at any time, but if ever you should see my mother, and you should give her the least idea of what you are always trying to tell me, you will make life a perfect purgatory for me. I dislike you now more than any one I know. I should simply hate you then. You understand?”
“I understand,” he answered. “You want me, in short, to join in a sort of alliance against myself?”