"Are you going to answer me, Julia?"
"How do you mean?" Julia said nervously.
"You know what I mean," Mark answered, with an impatient nod.
"No, I don't," Julia said, with a little laugh.
"Now, you look-a-here, Julia—you look-a-here," Mark began, almost angrily. "I am going to ask you to marry me! You've fooled about it, and you've laughed about it, and I've got a right to know! I think about it all the time; I lie awake at night and think about it. I"—his voice softened suddenly—"I love you awfully, Julia," he said. And then, with a sort of concentrated passion that rather frightened the girl, he added, "So I'm going to ask you once more. I want you to answer me, d'ye see?"
The car sped on, clanged across Market Street, turned into the Mission. Julia had grown a little pale. She gave Mark a fleeting glance, looked away, and finally brought her eyes back to him again.
"I wish you wouldn't take things so seriously, Mark," she began uneasily. "You're always forcing me to say things—and I don't want to—I don't want to get married at all—"
"Nonsense!" said Mark harshly.
"It's not nonsense!" Julia protested, glad to feel her anger rising. Mark saw her heightened colour, and misread it.
"Yes," he said sneeringly. "That's all very well, but I'll bet you'd feel pretty badly if I never came near you again—if I let the whole thing drop!"