“Force of fiddlesticks! He always gives that as an excuse when he does anything I dislike. I don’t believe in the force of circumstances. Do you?”
“Most assuredly,” I returned.
“Well, I don’t, then. I’m a free agent. You and papa might as well confess to fatalism. I would like to see circumstances force me!”
“I might weave a story showing the contrary. You have just seen——”
“Oh, that and your story would prove nothing,” she interrupted, with a charming lack of logic. “A truce to nonsense—it’s too hot. Look at me, sir!” she commanded, with mock severity. “Papa has practically thrown me on your hands without regard to my opinion in the matter, as though I were a small child. Aunt Margaret has a mild spell of rheumatism and the religious mood that always seems to go with it. I understand that you are responsible for me; how dare you assume the burden?”
“I accept, however,” I replied, with secret warmth.
“You will probably live to repent it. What shall we do?”
“Anything you elect. I am under your orders.”
“Then see that you obey them. The woods are too wet for a walk since last night’s storm, and as for staying about here after being cooped up two whole days by rain, it is intolerable. Let’s try to get Maxwell to take us out on his fishing-sloop. He will do it for you.”
“No,” I said firmly. “That is the one thing your father prohibits. It is mere nervousness, of course, but I will not be a party to such a thing. Think of something else—the force of circumstance is still against you.”