“We’re not dishonest, Tom, I hope.”
“No, my darling, no; but you know what I mean.”
I did know what he meant, of course. And I slipped my hand in his and we set off across the moonlit grass, with Spring bounding wildly after us. I dare say there were plenty more lovers in the world as happy as we, but we did not think so.
We made our way to the very bend of the river where I met him on Friday night, and sat down on the very identical stump. That is to say, I sat down on it, and he sat as close to me as circumstances permitted, in a very comfortable, if slightly ungraceful attitude. There were some wild ducks dotting the moonlight in the deep pool above us—if it had been a week-night they never would have swum about in that confidential way; and a pair of ridiculous laughing jackasses sat over our heads and jeered at us.
“Oh, Kitty, Kitty, how many nights like this shall we have, I wonder, out of six weeks of nights! What a dreadful little time it is!”
“Hush now, Tom. Don’t let us talk of anything but what is nice and pleasant. The other things can wait.”
“All right, we won’t. Kitty, when we are married, you must always wear black gowns with white lace on them, like that one you had on this morning.”
“Did you like it?”
“I should think so, rather. I never saw you in anything that suited you so well.”
“And it happens to be the dress that I like best. But oh, Tom, I should cost a fortune if I wore that sort of thing always? You can’t think how unlucky I am with my clothes, and how soon I make them shabby. I have a knack of catching on all the nails and knobs and things that stick out, somehow.”