"I--I _won't_ marry you!" she stammered in white desperation. "I _won't!_
If you're not a paper hanger you look like one! I don't care whether
you're a Harvard man or not--whether you're playing at paper hanging or
not--whether your name is George or not--I won't marry you--I won't! I
_won't!_"
With the feeling that his senses were rapidly evaporating the young man
sat down dizzily, and passed a paste-spattered but well-shaped hand
across his eyes.
Sybilla set her lips and looked at him.
"I don't suppose," she said, "that you understand what I am talking
about, but I've got to tell you at once; I can't stand this sort of
thing."
"W-what sort of thing?" asked the young man, feebly.
"Your being here in this house--with me----"
"I'll be very glad to go----"
"Wait! _That_ won't do any good! You'll come back!"
"N-no, I won't----"
"Yes, you will. Or I--I'll f-follow you----"
"What?"
"One or the other! We can't help it, I tell you. _You_ don't understand,
but I do. And the moment I knew your name was George----"
"What the deuce has that got to do with anything?" he demanded, turning
red in spite of his amazement.
"Waves!" she said passionately, "psychic waves! I--somehow--knew that
he'd be named George----"
"Who'd be named George?"
"_He!_ The--man... And if I ever--if you ever expect me to--to c-care for
a man all over overalls----"
"But I don't--Good Heavens!--I don't expect you to care for--for
overalls----"
"Then why do you wear them?" she asked in tremulous indignation.
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