"Confound Mr. Armathwaite! The devil fly away with Mr. Armathwaite! I'm sick of his name: I spit on him!" He literally writhed in a paroxysm of anger.
"Percy!"
He had chosen an unhappy word when he spoke of spitting on his rival. He reminded her of a toad, and she hated toads.
With a desperate effort he sat bolt upright in the bed.
"It's high time you and I had a few straight words, Meg," he said, and his voice lost its drawl, and the blasé manner was dropped. "You haven't forgotten, I suppose, that I've asked you to marry me?"
"No. Perhaps, if you rack your memory, you'll remember my answer," she said indignantly, for she felt the innuendo, and was resolved to resent it with vigor.
"No, oh, no! You said you didn't mean to marry anybody. That is a maidenly sentiment which is right and proper, and I agreed with it at the time. But the position has altered considerably during the past couple of days. As matters stand now, Meg, you may change your mind, and I beg to inform you that when you do marry, you'll marry me."
"It is hardly fair to take advantage of your accident," she said, with a quiet scorn that only served to infuriate him the more.
"What do you mean?" he said thickly.
"You are not usually so dense. If you were not ill you would never dare speak to me in that fashion."