"It isn't fair to you, Francis, because it isn't going to end the way you hope. But I'll go to Canada with you . . ."
For a moment she was very sorry she had said it, because Francis forgot himself and caught her in his arms tight, and kissed her hard.
"If you do that sort of thing I won't!" she said. "That wasn't in the bargain."
"I know it wasn't," said Francis contritely. "Only you were such a good little sport to promise. I won't do it again unless you say I may. Honestly, Marjorie. Not even before people."
This sounded rather topsy-turvy, but after awhile it came to Marjorie what he meant—just about the time she climbed out of the car, sat on its step, and watched Francis competently unfurling and setting up two small and seemingly inadequate tents and flooring them with balsam boughs. He meant that there would have to be at least a semblance of friendliness on account of the people they lived among. She felt more frightened than ever.
Francis came up to her as if he had felt the wave of terror that went over her.
"Now you aren't to worry. I'm going to keep my word. You're safe with me, Marge. I'm going to take care of you as if I were your brother and your father and your cousin Anna——"
She broke in with an irrepressible giggle.
"Oh, please don't go that far! Two male relatives will be plenty. . . . I—I really got all the care from Cousin Anna that I wanted."
He looked relieved at her being able to laugh, and bent over the tents again in the moonlight.