"Oh, I don't know. You'll have lots of things to manage—servants, dinner-parties, and"—
She dropped her potatoes and kicked over the pail, scattering its contents broadcast.
"Pick them up," she said.
He picked them up.
The little lady sat with her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, sniffing at the acridness of raw potatoes, staring gloomily the while out into the Sunday stillness of the afternoon. "I wish I was dead," she said miserably, addressing the Rocky Mountains over the way.
"But why?" He sat up on his haunches, the pail in one hand, an earthy vegetable in the other, staring horrified. "You shouldn't say such things. It's wicked. I won't have you say such things. I forbid it."
"You won't?" muttered Miss Violet vindictively; then gazing down at him with portentous emphasis she said—
"Damn!"
"Oh, I say!"
"Yes, you say. It's always you—'I'll this, or I'll that. It's my wish—I—I—I.' You're made of I's. There's nothing else in you but 'I.' Now, you listen to what little me says—I hate you, and if I marry you I'll make you as miserable as I am, you toad."