"I don't know anything about the clouds, and I don't care," says Rupert. Which was true of him, and true of thousands, and a most amazing thing it is that men don't care to know more about the wonderful things they see every day of their lives. But they don't, and Rupert didn't. "I don't care," says he; "I want to talk about something else—something quite different."
"Then you're not like me, Rupert," I said, sharp enough. "I should like to learn lots of things about the clouds. I want to know what makes them take such pretty shapes, and why the rain stops up there instead of coming down in buckets-full. And—oh dear, there's one of my pretty roses falling to bits. Isn't it a pity?"
Rupert wasn't listening. He had on his sort of bull-dog look, and I knew it meant that he had made up his mind to say his say, and that say it he would, no matter all I could do to hinder.
"It's getting late, and I must make haste home," says I.
"No, Kitty," says he, and he spoke determined-like. "You must hear me;" and he clutched hold of my dress with one hand. "There's something I've got to tell you, and I've been trying the past month, and can't get it out."
"Then don't get it out now; don't, Rupert," I said, stopping because I had to stop, for he stood still. There was nobody but our two selves within sight. "Don't say it, Rupert," I begged.
"But I must, and will," said he; "I can't wait no longer. Kitty, there's only one thing in all the world that I care for, and that is to know—Kitty, hear me—one moment, Kitty—I want you to promise that you'll be my wife some day. Won't you?"
But I snatched my dress from his hand, and set off running.
"Oh, not yet! not yet!" I cried. I had a sort of feeling that some day perhaps it might come about, because I knew father and mother were so fond of Rupert, and Rupert's mother and sisters were so fond of me. I didn't know, though, whether I was willing myself, and anyway I meant to keep my girlhood a little longer. "Oh, not yet! Nothing of that sort yet!" I cried.
Poor Rupert was not the lover I had secretly pictured to myself. I suppose most girls have their little dreams, and I had mine, though I did not waste time reading trashy tales, like many girls, for mother never allowed it. Still I had my little dream, and there was a hero in the dream,—somebody tall and handsome and straight and nice-mannered,— not like Rupert, with his round shoulders, and his shuffling walk, and his slow speech, and his good plain face.