"Why not, when you won't tell whether you're engaged to him or not? Why not, anyway? If I were sure you'd be happier with me, I'd snatch you out of his very maw. Yes, I would. Are you sure you like him, Mary?"
The girl did not answer, for Marshby had started again. Jerome got the look in her face, and smiled a little, sadly.
"Yes," he said, "you're sure."
Mary immediately felt unable to encounter them together. She gave Marshby a good-morning, and, to his bewilderment, made some excuse about her weeding and flitted past him on the path. His eyes followed her, and when they came back to Wilmer the artist nodded brightly.
"I've just asked her," he said.
"Asked her?" Marshby was about to pass him, pulling out his glasses and at the same time peering at the picture with the impatience of his near-sighted look.
"There, don't you do that!" cried Jerome, stopping, with his brush in air. "Don't you come round and stare over my shoulder. It makes me nervous ad the devil. Step back there—there by that mullein. So! I've got to face my protagonist. Yes, I've been asking her to marry me."
Marshby stiffened. His head went up, his jaw tightened. He looked the jealous ire of the male.
"What do you want me to stand here for?" he asked, irritably.