"My dear, I love you."
"No, you don't—you only love yourself; but I've got to marry you to get away from my Uncle. He gets on my nerves. Go away!"
Mr. Ramsay stared.
"Go away!"
Mr. Ramsay went mournfully away down towards the mill, where Mr. Burrows was saying his Sunday afternoon prayers to the steel cylinder. Half-way, among the trees, and just out of sight from the cabin, was a big wooden flume carrying water-power for a plant of turbines which turned the Burrows' generators, which actuated the fans, which ground the stone, which held the gold, which was to pay for the Park Lane house—for that is the stuff which dreams are made of. Mr. Ramsay sat down on the flume feeling very miserable.
But he felt worse than miserable presently when he saw a horseman ride up to the mill whom he recognised to his utter disgust as the Blackguard.
"Hello, Burrows!" La Mancha's big voice rang out through the woods. "Want a word with you, Burrows. Come out and talk like a white man. You won't?—ah, well, I'll talk while you keep your mouth shut. Are you in charge of Miss Violet Burrows? You are, eh? All right, I'm paying my addresses to Miss Violet, and if she'll have me I'm going to marry her. D'you hear? Yes, marry her. I didn't ask for your consent—I only ask favours from gentlemen. All right, Burrows, be good to yourself."
So, having propitiated her guardian, La Mancha turned his horse uphill to propose to the lady.
Meanwhile Mr. Ramsay was considerably ahead, out of sight, running through the trees for dear life, determined to get the lady out of his reach.
"Violet," he cried hysterically, coming up before the cabin, "come with me—there's a great big cariboo grazing up on the spur." He ran into the cabin, snatching up his rifle. "Come—by the back way—quick!"