"Well, cruel fate," she says, as if prompting him.
He turns, and she blushes vividly. He bends lower until the warm cheek, soft as a girl's, touches hers, and the lips meet. Then he draws her arm through his, and takes her parasol.
"I wonder," he says, presently, "if I could get enough together to buy you of your father? Might I try?"
"You mercenary wretch!" she cries, but the tone is delicious.
"See here," he says, "some fellows have the cheek to ask such a gift for just nothing at all. I rate you more highly."
That is very sweet flattery. Her eyes droop and the color comes and goes.
"You might ask him," she says, in a tone of irresistible fascination, "but I do not believe you will have quite enough."
"Then I shall start for Dakota."
They ramble up and down, and Eugene allows himself to sup of delight. Does it make so much difference, after all, whom he marries? Polly is very charming and her lips are like rose-leaves. She loves him also, and she isn't the kind to bore a man.
Late that evening Violet steals out on the porch for a breath of the dewy air. Cecil has been wakeful and the stories almost endless. Floyd has not come home to dinner, and she feels strangely nervous.