“Oh, Mr. Hopper!” she cried.  “Please, not in here.”  He drew back, staring in astonishment at the crimson in her face.

“Why not?” he asked suspiciously—­almost brutally.  She had been groping wildly for excuses, and found none.

“Because,” she said, “because I ask you not to.”  With dignity:  “That should be sufficient.”

“Well,” replied Eliphalet, with an abortive laugh, “that’s funny, now.  Womenkind get queer notions, which I cal’late we’ve got to respect and put up with all our lives—­eh?”

Her anger flared at his leer and at his broad way of gratifying her whim.  And she was more incensed than ever at his air of being at home—­it was nothing less.

The man’s whole manner was an insult.  She strove still to hide her resentment.

“There is a walk along the bluff,” she said, coldly, “where the view is just as good.”

But she purposely drew him into the right-hand path, which led, after a little, back to the house.  Despite her pace he pressed forward to her side.

“Miss Jinny,” said he, precipitately, “did I ever strike you as a marrying man?”

Virginia stopped, and put her handkerchief to her face, the impulse strong upon her to laugh.  Eliphalet was suddenly transformed again into the common commercial Yankee.  He was in love, and had come to ask her advice.  She might have known it.

“I never thought of you as of the marrying kind, Mr. Hopper,” she answered, her voice quivering.

Indeed, he was irresistibly funny as he stood hot and ill at ease.  The Sunday coat bore witness to his increasing portliness by creasing across from the buttons; his face, fleshy and perspiring, showed purple veins, and the little eyes receded comically, like a pig’s.

“Well, I’ve been thinking serious of late about getting married,” he continued, slashing the rose bushes with his stick.  “I don’t cal’late to be a sentimental critter.  I’m not much on high-sounding phrases, and such things, but I’d give you my word I’d make a good husband.”

“Please be careful of those roses, Mr. Hopper.”

“Beg pardon,” said Eliphalet.  He began to lose track of his tenses—­that was the only sign he gave of perturbation.  “When I come to St. Louis without a cent, Miss Jinny, I made up my mind I’d be a rich man before I left it.  If I was to die now, I’d have kept that promise.  I’m not thirty-four, and I cal’late I’ve got as much money in a safe place as a good many men you call rich.  I’m not saying what I’ve got, mind you.  All in proper time.

“I’m a pretty steady kind.  I’ve stopped chewing—­there was a time when I done that.  And I don’t drink nor smoke.”

“That is all very commendable, Mr. Hopper,” Virginia said, stifling a rebellious titter.  “But,—­but why did you give up chewing?”

“I am informed that the ladies are against it,” said Eliphalet,—­“dead against it.  You wouldn’t like it in a husband, now, would you?”