“The roses are going off, Bill,” she said—pointing to the rose trees. “What a pity they don’t last two or three months longer.”
I looked at them. “Tell me their names, Mary?”
“Sharman Crawford, Caroline Testout, Daily Mail, La France, Betty, Xavier——”
I interrupted her. “Some roses are always with us,” I ventured.
“Why, what do you mean, Bill?”
“I meant you,” I replied. Lamely, I’m afraid. It sounded so, at least.
She smiled very sweetly. “That’s very nice of you, Bill. I hope you really meant it.”
“Of course I meant it. I never meant anything half so much in my life before.”
“You mustn’t make me conceited, Bill—and I’m afraid you will if you talk like that.”
“I couldn’t make you anything,” I declared. “Only a master could make you, and I’m only a big lump of commonplaceness and ordinariness. You’re just lovely. And to me, Mary, the loveliest, dearest and sweetest girl in the world,—for I love you.”