“Yes.”
He looked so dejected that I grasped his hand.
“Maybe a cattle show was a poor place,” said I.
“I chose a poorer,” said he, “I asked her in the merry-go-round.”
“Wha-at?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to be romantic. It has often struck me that many a girl says yes because it is moonlight, or the lane is shady, or the breeze is balmy. You see I look at it from the point of view of a writer—and I thought I’d strip it of all glamour after I’d made up my mind—thanks to you—that I had a chance, and so when she said she’d like to ride around on the elephant I was fool enough to sit alongside of her on a blame little donkey and there wasn’t anybody within ear shot as the next thing behind was a wagon and they’re not popular. And just before the thing started I—well I asked her, and she burst out laughing and then she got mad and then the old thing started and we had to ride till it stopped, and then she asked me to take her away because she felt dizzy and I took her away and we ran plump into Hepburn and he asked her to go and see a man selling whips, and I went down the road a mile and wished I’d never been born. I think she felt insulted.”
I looked the other way.
“Why don’t you try again?”
“Thank you. I know when I’ve had enough.”
He left me and I went behind a large oak and sat on the grass and laughed until I cried. The idea of a sensible man sitting on a wooden donkey and asking a pretty girl on a wooden elephant if she would care to ride the merry-go-round of life with him.