"You do love him?"
"No, I don't! I mean—Oh, how dare you?"
Philip came closer. The frown faded.
"Cleone—do you—could you—love me?"
Cleone was silent.
Closer still came Philip, and spoke rather huskily.
"Will you—marry me, Cleone?"
Still silence, but the blue eyes were downcast.
"Cleone," blundered Philip, "you—don't want a—mincing, powdered—beau."
"I do not want a—a—raw—country-bumpkin," she said cruelly.