Peggy shook her head with indubitable honesty.
"No, she only says you will sooner or later. But that's because she's Irish, I think; you know Irish people do like a bit of a shindy once in awhile. I admit I don't mind it myself. But you Americans born are quieter. When you quarrel you seem to take no pleasure whatever in it, for all I can see!"
Marjorie laughed irrepressibly.
"Oh, Peggy, I do love you!" she said. "It's true, I don't like quarreling a bit. It always makes me unhappy. It's my Puritan ancestry, I suppose."
"Well, you can't help your forebears," said Peggy sagely.
"And now shall I call up the folks for the dance to-night?"
"Oh, yes, do!" begged Marjorie, who had slept as much as she wanted to and felt ready for anything in the world.
She lay on in the khaki hammock in a happy drowsiness. The wind and sunshine alone were enough to make her happy. And there was going to be a dance to-night, and she could wear a little pink dress she remembered . . . and pretty soon there would be luncheon, and after that she was going off on a gorgeous expedition with Francis, where there was a fire, and rabbits and maybe a nice but perfectly harmless little green snake that would look at her affectionately . . . but everybody looked at you affectionately, once you were married . . . it was very warming and comforting. . . .
She was asleep again before she knew it. It was only Francis's quick step on the porch that woke her—Francis, very alert and flushed, and exceedingly hungry.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Francis, the food's been waitin' you this long time," said Mrs. O'Mara, evidently in answer to a soul-cry of Francis's, for he had not had time to say anything aloud. "Bring yer wife an' come along an' eat."