“Dearest one,” he cried, when they were comfortably settled in their favorite corner of the boat deck, “listen! I'm sure we're all wrong. I know we are. Why should you and I—” and he took her hand—“wait and plan and sour ourselves as little people do? We've both got to live, haven't we? And we are going to live; you don't expect we shall starve, do you?”
She shook her head, smiling.
“Well, then,” triumphantly, “why shouldn't we live together? Why, it would be absurd not to, even from the base and practical point of view. Think of the saving! One rent instead of two—one everything instead of two!” His arm gave her a quick pressure.
“Yes, but—” she demurred.
He turned on her suddenly. “You don't want to wait for trimmings—clothes, orange blossoms, all that stuff—do you?” he expostulated.
“No, of course not, foolish one,” she laughed.
“Well, then, where's the difficulty?” exultingly.
She could not answer—could hardly formulate the answer to herself. Deep in her being she seemed to feel an urge toward waiting, toward preparation, toward the collection of she knew not what small household gods. It was as if she wished to make fair a place to receive her sacrament of love. But this she could not express, could not speak to him of the vision of the tiny hand.
“You're brave, Mary. Your courage was one of the things I most loved in you. Let's be brave together!” His smile was irresistibly happy.
She could not bear that he should doubt her courage, and she wanted passionately not to take that smile from his face. She began to weaken.