“Sir Mark, I must return home.”
“Yes, directly, sweet; but, Mace, listen to me. You cannot, you will not, be so cold as this?”
“Sir Mark,” replied the girl, “does my father know that you meant to speak to me thus?”
“Pest on her particular ways,” he muttered. Then aloud, “No; but he shall know, if you wish it, sweet.”
“If I wish it, Sir Mark! I do wish it; and tell him at the same time what I tell you now, that I say I cannot listen to your words.”
He was so taken aback by her firmness that she swung open the gate and passed hastily along the road leading to the house, looking excited, tearful, and greatly agitated—a state of agitation increased as she encountered Gil half-way, and knew that he must see her excited manner.
“Mace,” he said, sternly, “I want a few words with you.”
“Not now; not now,” she said.
“Yes, now,” he cried, angrily. “I cannot bear this coldness longer. You must, you shall, listen to me.”
“No, no,” she cried; “another time.”