"Not if you didn't like it, dear. Suppose we have two homes, one in the city and one in the country?"
"Homes for lunatics, do you mean?" and Patty favoured the young man with a wide-eyed gaze of inquiry.
"You know very well what I mean," and Philip returned her gaze with one of calm regard. "You know why I brought you out here this afternoon, and you know exactly what I'm going to say to you. Don't you?"
"Not EXACTLY," and Patty drew a roguish frown; "they all word it differently, you know."
"It is a matter of utter indifference to me how the others word it," and Philip leaned up comfortably against a rock as he looked at Patty. "The only thing that engrosses my mind, is whether I myself can word it persuasively enough to make you say yes. Do you think I can?"
"You never can tell till you try," said Patty, in a flippant tone.
"Then I'll try. But, Patty, dearest, you know it all; you know how I love you, you know how long I have loved you. Aren't you ever going to give me the least little encouragement?"
"How can I, Phil, when I don't feel encouraging a bit?"
"But you will, dear, won't you? You remember last winter when we went on that sleighride after the butter and eggs? Why, Patty, you ALMOST said yes, then."
"Why, Philip Van Reypen! I didn't do anything of the sort! I had no idea of saying yes, then,—I haven't now,—and I'm not sure that I ever shall have!"