"It is hard," returned Cynthia, "for a person to be forced upon a person by another person, when that person can't make the person that's forcing her on the other person understand that she don't care anything about the other person, or that the other person don't care anything about the person, but I don't see what we are to do about it."
"Whether I am forced upon you or not," said I, "I intend to tell you right here very plainly that you are not forced upon me. I have not the slightest intention of going through one of those ridiculous misunderstandings that one reads of in novels when one word can clear it up. What have I told you, Cynthia, ever since I saw——"
"Miss Archer, please."
"Your Uncle said I might——"
"Oh, very well, then, go on," said Cynthia wearily.
"What have I told you since I first met you on board the Yankee Blade, Miss Cynthia, Miss Archer?"
"No matter about the 'Miss,'" she said. "You'll have the right to call me whatever you choose by sunset."
"To call you wife," said I sentimentally.
Cynthia arose.
"If you say that now, I'll go away," her face the colour of that sunset of which we had been speaking.