“And if he should chance to be the sort of person who always wants his own way, it would be disastrous. Yes—I see. And I comprehend your ideal. I saw such a man once. It was in a railway station. He stood at one side holding all the luggage, and his wife bought the tickets. She was larger than he—I should say about one hundred and fifty pounds larger. To take and hold such an enviable position as this woman held needs, I think, an excess of avoirdupois.”
He was laughing down at her, for she had got to her feet, and he had risen with her. One hundred and twenty pounds of girlish grace and slenderness looked even less beside one hundred and eighty of well-distributed masculine bulk. But it was only his lips which laughed. His eyes dwelt on her with no raillery in their depths, only a longing which grew with each jesting word he spoke.
“Will you let me carry you in?” he asked, as she moved slowly toward Betty. She shook her head. She laid a caressing hand on the mare’s smooth nose and whispered in her ear.
“Good-night, Betty,” she said.
“You ought not to walk, with that knee. You can’t fool with a knee—it’s a bad place to get hurt. I’m going to carry you.”
She stood still, looking up at him at last. “Good-night, Mr. Jarvis,” she said.
He came close. “See here,” he said, rapidly, under his breath, “I can’t stand this any longer. You’ve put me off and put me off—and I’ve let you. You’ve had your way. Now I’m going to have mine. You shall answer me, one way or the other, to-night—now. I love you—I’ve told you so—twice with my lips—a hundred times in every other way. But I’m not going to be played with any longer. Will you take me—now—or never?”
“What a singular way—what a barbaric way,” she said, with proud eyes.
“It may be singular—it may be primitive—it’s my way—to end what I must. Will you answer me?”
“Yes, I’ll answer you,” she said, with uplifted head.