look in her face, and smiled a little, sadly.

"Yes," he said, "you're sure."

Mary immediately felt unable to encounter them together. She gave
Marshby a good-morning, and, to his bewilderment, made some excuse about
her weeding and flitted past him on the path. His eyes followed her, and
when they came back to Wilmer the artist nodded brightly.

"I've just asked her," he said.

"Asked her?" Marshby was about to pass him, pulling out his glasses and
at the same time peering at the picture with the impatience of his
near-sighted look.

"There, don't you do that!" cried Jerome, stopping, with his brush in
air. "Don't you come round and stare over my shoulder. It makes me
nervous ad the devil. Step back there--there by that mullein. So! I've
got to face my protagonist. Yes, I've been asking her to marry me."

Marshby stiffened. His head went up, his jaw tightened. He looked the
jealous ire of the male.

"What do you want me to stand here for?" he asked, irritably.

"But she refused me," said Wilmer, cheerfully. "Stand still, that's a
good fellow. I'm using you."

Marshby had by an effort pulled himself together. He dismissed Mary from
his mind, as he wished to drive her from the other man's speech.