She smiled triumphantly, but wistfully. And Hillyer was still silent.
“Daddy wasn’t very good at quoting Scripture,” she went on musingly, “but he used to say: ‘Better a dinner of herbs where love is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’”
“But there isn’t any hatred therewith!” cried Hillyer desperately. “I love you, Marion, and if you don’t love me––you don’t hate me. So there’s more than half of it, and––can’t we trust the future a little bit?”
“No.”
“But what are you going to do?” he asked, shifting his line of attack.
“I don’t know,” she replied, with a helpless gesture.
“You can’t go back to New York without money enough to take your proper place in the world. Of course, if you’ll let me, I’ll––”
“Robert!” she interrupted sharply.
“Well, I mean it just the same!” he replied stoutly. “I’ve got to take care of you, and if you won’t––See here, Marion! I simply refuse to be turned down this way. I’ll not take your stubborn, whimsy little ‘no’ for my answer. You’re on my hands, thank God! whether you like it or not. Maybe you won’t love me. Maybe you won’t marry me. We’ll see about that! But I’m going to look after you––I’m going to take care of you, just the same––and you can just stop tightening those lips––they’re not as red as they ought to be––and you can make up your mind that you can boss me so far and no farther.”