Rosemary stood up and put her knitting aside. Then she held out her hands. "All right," she said, "here they are. Only if I don't finish that wretched thing quickly it will just lie about and get dusty."
Anthony pulled her down on to the rug beside him and then made himself thoroughly comfortable.
"Put your head on my shoulder," he advised her, "if you're not feeling affectionate. And kiss my chin once or twice. I want you to feel affectionate because I've something to say to you, and a nice woman is swayed by her emotions."
Rosemary straightened herself at once. "What ridiculous plan have you got," she asked, "that you can't trust to my calm judgment?"
Anthony looked straight ahead of him, at the fire. "It's a very good plan," he said, "it's an excellent plan, and I've given a good deal of thought to it. I think it's time we got married."
He did not turn, but her shoulder was against his, and he felt her stiffen. "Why—particularly?" she asked.
"Oh, general reasons. As a matter of fact it's your duty to be pining to marry me, and I think it's rather giving in to you to tell you reasons, but I will if you like."
Rosemary believed that life is a serious thing, and she could not now help him to be flippant. "Yes, do!" she said, and Anthony honourably tried.
"Wouldn't you agree," he began, "that the art of living is largely not going on with things after you've had the best of them? When things begin to shrink instead of expanding, you ought to change them—don't you agree?"
Rosemary was looking down at the floor. "But why has our engagement begun to shrink?" she asked. "I don't think it has."