Marguerite sang on: 

  “I’ll give to you a coach and six,
  Every horse as black as pitch,
  If you will marry me, me, me,
  If you will marry me.”

“I’ll make it two coaches and twelve white ponies.”

Marguerite sang on, this time very tenderly: 

  “I’ll give to you the key of my heart,
  That we may love and never part,
  If you will marry me, me, me,
  If you will marry me.”

“No man can give anything better,” said Barbee, moving closer (as close as possible) and looking questioningly full into Marguerite’s eyes.

Marguerite glanced up and down the street.  The moment was opportune, the disposition of the universe seemed kind.  The big parasol slipped a little lower.

“Marguerite. . .  Please, Marguerite. . . Marguerite.”

The parasol was suddenly pulled down low and remained very still a moment:  then a quiver ran round the fringe.  It was still again, and there was another quiver.  It swayed to and fro and round and round, and then stood very, very still indeed, and there was a violent quiver.

Then Marguerite ran into the library as out of a sudden shower; and Barbee with long slow strides returned to his office.

“Anna,” said Professor Hardage, laying his book across his knee as they sat that afternoon in the shady side porch, “I saw Marguerite this morning and she sent her compliments.  They were very pretty compliments.  I sometimes wonder where Marguerite came from—­out of what lands she has wandered.”

“Well, now that you have stopped reading,” said Miss Anna, laying down her work and smoothing her brow (she never spoke to him until he did stop—­perfect woman), “that Is what I have been waiting to talk to you about:  do you wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite’s ball?”

“I most certainly do not wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite’s ball,” he said, laughing, “I am going with you.”

“Well, you most certainly are not going with me:  I am going with Harriet.”

“Anna!”

“If I do not, who will?  Now what I want you to do is to pay Harriet some attention after I arrive with her.  I shall take her into supper, because if you took her in, she would never get any.  But suppose that after supper you strolled carelessly up to us—­you know how men do—­and asked her to take a turn with you.”

“What kind of a turn in Heaven’s name?”

“Well, suppose you took her out into the yard—­to one of those little rustic seats of Marguerite’s—­and sat there with her for half an hour—­in the darkest place you could possibly find.  And I want you to try to hold her hand.”

“Why, Anna, what on earth—­”

“Now don’t you suppose Harriet would let you do it,” she said indignantly.  “But what I want her to have is the pleasure of refusing:  it would be such a triumph.  It would make her happy for days:  it might lengthen her life a little.”