“It is a beautiful day,” he began, after a pause.
“Is it?” she asked, indifferently.
(“Frightfully snubbish,” said I, appalled at the lengths to which Miss Andrews was going.
“Dreadfully,” sighed Harley. “And so unlike her, too.”)
“Yes,” said Parker, “so very beautiful that it seemed a pity that you and I should stay indoors, with plenty of walks to be taken and—”
Marguerite interrupted him with a sarcastic laugh.
“With so much pity and so many walks, Mr. Parker, why don’t you take a few of them!” she said.
(“Good Lord!” said I. “This is the worst act of rebellion yet. She seems beside herself.”
“Read on!” said Harley, in sepulchral tones.)
This was Parker’s opportunity. “I am not fond of walking, Miss Andrews,” he said; and then he added, quickly, “that is, alone—I don’t like anything alone. Living alone, like walking alone, is—”