“‘Mr. Parmer!’” His tone and his look were reproachful. “Can’t choo say Orville?”
“Oh, I can—if you want I sh’u’d.”
“Well, I do want choo sh’u’d, Emarine. Now, yuh know what else it is I want choo sh’u’d say before we go on.”
“Why, no, I don’t—hunh-unh.” She shook her head, coquettishly.
“Emarine”—the young fellow’s face took on a sudden seriousness—“I want choo to say yuh’ll marry me.”
“Oh, my, no!” cried Emarine. She turned her head on one side, like a bird, and looked at him with lifted brows and surprised eyes. One would have imagined that such a thought had never entered that pretty head before.
“What, Emarine! Yuh won’t?” There was consternation in his voice.
“Oh, my, no!” Both glance and movement were full of coquettishness. The very fringes of the demure gray shawl seemed to have taken on new life and vivacity.
Orville Palmer’s face turned pale and stern. He drew a long breath silently, not once removing that searching look from her face.
“Well, then,” he said, calmly, “I want to know what choo mean by up an’ lettin’ me kiss yuh—if yuh don’t mean to marry me.”