"I'll come up and freshen it!" he threatened.

"Please don't rumple me. I'll come down if you like. Shall I?"

"All right, darling," he said, resuming his newspaper and cigarette.

She came, seated herself demurely beside him, twitched his newspaper
until he cast an ominous glance at his tormentor.

"Dear," she said, "I simply can't let you alone; you are so bland and
self-satisfied--"

"Athalie--if you persist in tormenting me--"

"I torment you? I? An humble accessory in the scenery set for you?
I?--a stage property fashioned merely for the hero of the drama to sit
upon--"

"All right! I'll do that now!--"

But she nestled close to him, warding off wrath with both arms
clasping his, and looking up at him out of winning eyes in which but a
tormenting glint remained.

"You wouldn't rumple this very beautiful and brand new gown, would
you, darling? It was so frightfully expensive--"

"I don't care--"

"Oh, but you must care. You must become thrifty and shrewd and
devious and close, or you'll never make a successful farmer--"

"Dearest, that's nonsense. What do I know about farming?"

"Nothing yet. But you know what a wonderful man you are. Never forget
that, Clive--"

"If you don't stop laughing at me, you little wretch--"