“No, he mayn’t—­not if he wants to marry me.”

“If I promise not to say a word more about it, will you get over your temper?”

“If you keep your promise, but how am I to know that you won’t burst out again the next time I look at a man?”

“Only try to look at them a little differently, Molly, not quite so wide-eyed and red-lipped—­but primmer and with lowered lashes, just a bit contemptuous, as if your were thinking ’you might as well be a stick or a stone for all the thought I am giving you.’” The mental picture appeared to afford him satisfaction, for he resumed after a moment.  “I believe if you’d practise it a while before the glass you could do it—­you are so clever.”

“Why on earth should I make myself ugly just to please you?”

“It wouldn’t be making yourself ugly—­I can’t endure an ugly woman.  All I want you to be is sober.”

“Then what made you fall in love with me?  It certainly was not for soberness.”

He shook his head hopelessly, puzzled for the first time by the too obvious contradiction between the ideal and the actual—­between the phantom of a man’s imagination and the woman who enthralls his heart.

“To save my life I couldn’t tell you why I did,” he replied.  “It does seem, a bit foolish to fall in love with a woman as she is and then try to make her over into something different.”

“Judy Hatch was the person God intended for you, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, I’m not, and if I were I’d go ahead and defeat his intentions as I’m doubtless doing this minute.  Let’s make up now, so you’d as well stop talking silliness.”

“It’s you that talks silliness, not I—­as if I were going through life lowering my lashes and looking contemptuous!  But you’re your mother all over again.  I’ve heard her say a dozen times that a girl who is born homely ought to get down on her knees and thank the Lord for protecting her from temptation.”

“You never heard me say it, did you?”

“No, but I shall yet if I live long enough—­and all because of your ridiculous jealousy.”

The humour of this struck him, and he remarked rather grimly: 

“Good God, Molly, what a vixen you are!” Then he broke into a laugh, and catching her to him, stopped her mouth with kisses.

“Well, we’re in it,” he said, “and we can’t get out, so there’s no use fighting about it.”

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHADE OF MR. JONATHAN

Old Reuben, seated in his chair on the porch, watched Molly come up the flagged walk over the bright green edgings of moss.  Her eyes, which were like wells of happiness, smiled at him beneath the blossoming apple boughs.  Already she had forgotten the quarrel and remembered only the bliss of the reconciliation.

“I’ve had visitors while you were out, honey,” said the old man as she bent to kiss him.  “Mr. Chamberlayne and Mr. Jonathan came up and sat a bit with me.”