Marguerite sang on:
"I'll give to you a coach and six,
Every horse as black as pitch,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."
"I'll make it two coaches and twelve white ponies."
Marguerite sang on, this time very tenderly:
"I'll give to you the key of my heart,
That we may love and never part,
If you will marry me, me, me,
If you will marry me."
"No man can give anything better," said Barbee, moving closer (as close as possible) and looking questioningly full into Marguerite's eyes.
Marguerite glanced up and down the street. The moment was opportune, the disposition of the universe seemed kind. The big parasol slipped a little lower.
"Marguerite. . . Please, Marguerite. . . Marguerite."
The parasol was suddenly pulled down low and remained very still a moment: then a quiver ran round the fringe. It was still again, and there was another quiver. It swayed to and fro and round and round, and then stood very, very still indeed, and there was a violent quiver.
Then Marguerite ran into the library as out of a sudden shower; and
Barbee with long slow strides returned to his office.