“No.”
There was a slight pause.
“Pat doesn’t seem to want to marry. She snaps her fingers at your sex.”
“Oh! that will come later on. She’ll marry right enough one day, when the right man comes along. Pat isn’t unfeminine or a crank.”
Claudia shot a sideways glance at him as they walked in step together. They were passing a hedge fragrant with honeysuckle and she stopped and picked a piece.
“Do you know—oh! do you mind getting that top piece—I once thought you had a—a fancy for her.”
He looked down at her, honeysuckle in hand, a curious twinkle in his grey eyes. “I’m very fond of Pat, but not as a wife, thank you. I’m neither old enough nor young enough for her. Middle-age would not mate well with the Amazon.”
“What ridiculous nonsense! The reporter was blind. You don’t look middle-aged.... Are you ever going to take a wife, Colin? Thank you. Doesn’t it smell sweet?”
They were approaching the top of the hill on which stood the windmill revolving very slowly, and from whence a magnificent view of the country around could be obtained. Perhaps the jerks in their conversation were due to the need of economy in breathing, for the climb was fairly steep.
“Do you insist on my marrying?”