He smiled deeply. “That would not answer my purpose at all,” said he. “Napping is far from my desires.”
“But I don’t care anything about your desires,” said Margery, in a tone which showed she was truly vexed, “I have pre-empted this place, and I want it to myself. I was just falling into a most delightful doze when you came, and I don’t think you have any right to come here and disturb me.”
“The sense of right, Miss Dearborn,” said he, “comes from the heart, and we do not have to ask other people what it is. My heart has given me the right to come here, and here I am.”
“And what in the name of common-sense are you here for?” said Margery. “Speaking about your heart makes me think you came here to make love to me. Is that it?”
“It is,” said he, “and I wish you to hear me.”
“Mr. Raybold,” said she, her eyes as bright, he thought, as if they had belonged to his sister when she was urging some of her favorite views upon a company, “I won’t listen to one word of such stuff. This is no place for love-making, and I won’t have it. If you want to make love to me you can wait until I go home, and then you can come and speak to my mother about it, and when you have spoken to her you can speak to me, but I won’t listen to it here. Not one word!”
Thus did the indignant craftiness of Margery express itself. “It’s a good deal better,” she thought, “than telling him no, and having him keep on begging and begging.”
“Miss Dearborn,” said Raybold, “what I have to say cannot be postponed. The words within me must be spoken, and I came here to speak them.”
With a sudden supple twist Margery turned herself, hammock and all, and stood on her feet on the ground. “Martin!” she cried, at the top of her voice.
Raybold stepped back astonished. “What is this?” he exclaimed. “Am I to understand—”