"Guy, we are really engaged."
"Pauline, Pauline!"
In the dusty room among the ghosts of dead seasons and the moldering store amassed by the suns of other years, they stood locked, heart to heart.
Before Guy went home that night, when they were lingering in the hall, he told Pauline that the next thing to be done was to write to his own father.
"Guy, do you think he'll like me?"
"Why, how could he help it? But he may grumble at the idea of my being engaged."
"When do you think he'll write?"
"I expect he'll come down here to see me. In the Spring he wrote and said he would."
"Guy, I'm sure he's going to make it difficult for you."
Guy shook his head.