"----we'll write her and get it. . . . Well?" Marjorie took a long breath, tried to be very wide-awake and firm, and fell silent, thinking. She was committed, for one thing. People would think it was all right and natural if she went on with Francis, and be shocked and upset and everything else if she didn't. Cousin Anna Stevenson would write her long letters about her Christian duty, and the office would be uncomfortable. And Lucille--well, Lucille was a blessed comfort. She didn't mind what you did so long as it didn't put her out personally. She at least--but Lucille had packed the bag! And you couldn't go and fling yourself on the neck of as perfidious a person as _that_. And--it would be an adventure. Francis was nice, or at least she remembered it so; a delightful companion. He wasn't rushing her. All he wanted was a chance to be around and court her, as far as she could discover. True, he was appallingly strange, but--it seemed a compromise. And she had always liked the idea of Canada. As for eventually staying with Francis, that seemed very far off. It did not seem like a thing she could ever do. Being friends with him she might compass. Of course, you couldn't say that it was a fair deal to Francis, but he was bringing it on himself, and really, he deserved the punishment. For of course, Marjorie's vain little mind said irrepressibly to itself, he would be fonder of her at the end of the try-out than at the beginning. . . . And then a swift wave of anger at him came over her, and she decided on the crest of it. She would never give in to Francis's courtship. He wasn't the sort of man she liked. He wasn't congenial. She had grown beyond him. But he deserved what he was going to get. . . . And she spoke. "It isn't fair to you, Francis, because it isn't going to end the way you hope. But I'll go to Canada with you . . ." For a moment she was very sorry she had said it, because Francis forgot himself and caught her in his arms tight, and kissed her hard. "If you do that sort of thing I _won't_!" she said. "That wasn't in the bargain." "I know it wasn't," said Francis contritely. "Only you were such a good little sport to promise. I won't do it again unless you say I may. Honestly, Marjorie. Not even before people." This sounded rather topsy-turvy, but after awhile it came to Marjorie what he meant--just about the time she climbed out of the car, sat on its step, and watched Francis competently unfurling and setting up two small and seemingly inadequate tents and flooring them with balsam boughs. He meant that there would have to be at least a semblance of friendliness on account of the people they lived among. She felt more frightened than ever. Francis came up to her as if he had felt the wave of terror that went over her.