"Has he been talking to you about me?" he demanded, an ugly gleam flashing into his eyes.
"He has never said a word against you,—not one. But I don't believe you when you say he told you that we ought to get married." She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had turned her face away from him.
"I'm a liar, am I?" he snarled.
"I—I don't believe he ever said it," she said stubbornly.
"Well,—you're right," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "Not in so many words. But he did say to me that he had told you he saw no reason why you shouldn't marry me if you wanted to. Did he ever tell you that?"
She remembered only too well the aggravating encounter in the thicket path.
"Yes, he did," she replied, lifting her head defiantly. "And," she added, "I hated him for it. I hate him more and more every time I think of it. He—he was perfectly abominable."
"Well, you're—you're damned complimentary," he grated, his face expressing the utmost bewilderment.
She walked on for eight or ten paces before speaking again. Her head was lowered. She knew that he was glaring at the wing of the bonnet which shielded her whitening cheek. Suddenly she turned to him.
"Barry, let's sit down on that log over there for a few minutes. There is something I've got to say to you,—and I'm sorry. You must not be angry with me. Won't you come over there with me,—and listen to what I have to tell you?"