Oh, blessed, blessed, you really love me? You really love me?
It's hard to believe I've actually heard you say it! And I love you so
completely. Everything."

"I love you!... That is such an adorable spot to kiss, just below your
ear," she said. "Darling, keep me safe in the little house of arms,
where there's only room for you and me--no room for offices or Aunt
Emmas!... But not now. We must hurry on.... If a wagon had been coming
along the road----!"

As they entered the rhododendron-lined drive of the Patton Kerr place,
Carl remembered a detail, not important, but usual. "Oh yes," he said,
"I've forgotten to propose."

"Need you? Proposals sound like contracts and all those other dull
forms; not like--that kiss.... See! There's Pat Kerr, Jr., waving to
us. You can just make him out, there on the upper balcony. He is the
darlingest child, with ash-blond hair cut Dutch style. I wonder if you
didn't look like him when you were a boy, with your light hair?"

"Not a chance. I was a grubby kid. Made noises.... Gee! what a bully
place. And the house!... Will you marry me?"

"Yes, I will!... It _is_ a dear place. Mrs. Pat is----"

"When?"

"----always fussing over it; she plants narcissuses and crocuses in
the woods, so you find them growing wild."

"I like those awnings. Against the white walls.... May I consider that
we are engaged then, Miss Winslow--engaged for the next marriage?"

"Oh no, no, not engaged, dear. Don't you know it's one of my
principles----"

"But look----"

"----not to be engaged, Hawk? Everybody brings the cunnin' old jokes
out of the moth-balls when you're engaged. I'll marry you, but----"

"Marry me next month--August?"

"Nope."

"September?"

"Nope."

"Please, Ruthie. Aw yes, September. Nice month, September is. Autumn.
Harvest moon. And apples to swipe. Come on. September."

"Well, perhaps September. We'll see. Oh, Hawk dear, can you conceive
of us actually sitting here and solemnly discussing being _married_?
Us, the babes in the wood? And I've only known you three days or so,
seems to me.... Well, as I was saying, _perhaps_ I'll marry you in
September (um! frightens me to think of it; frightens me and awes me
and amuses me to death, all at once). That is, I shall marry you
unless you take to wearing pearl-gray derbies or white evening ties
with black edging, or kill Mason in a duel, or do something equally
disgraceful. But engaged I will not be. And we'll put the money for