He shook his head at her with mock reproach. "What makes you so incredulous, Rose?" he asked, sadly. "It's a lamentable trait in a woman!"
"I, at least, don't fly into rages with you," she retorted.
At that, he put on an air of intense depression. "It's well you don't," he said. "Two rages on your account are enough."
"On my account? Two?"
"Oh, yes, yes, wholly on your account. You little know, Rosamund, what I've tried to do for you!"
"Marshall, you are too absurd!"
"Now there's that lamentable trait of yours again, Rose! Really, it's time you came down from your mountains, if that's what they do to you!"
"Oh, well, Marshall, I'll believe anything you tell me! What have you been doing now?"
He drew his chair a little closer to hers, and lowered his voice to a more confidential tone. "Rosamund, I'm a misunderstood man," he said, mournfully. "Whenever I try to do anything for you, people seem to turn against me. Now there's Cecilia—look at those shoulders, will you? Did you ever see anything so frigid? Make me feel as if there's a draught on my neck, just to look at them. That's the way she treats me, ever since I told her to let Flood alone, because he's your preserve!"
Rosamund laughed; the mystery was made clear. "Good gracious, Marshall! You never did that?"