"How often have I been here without you!" said Guy. "How often have I wished you were beside me, and now you are beside me."
They were standing in a wreath of snowy blackthorn that almost veiled even the narrow entrance to this demesne they held in fief of April.
"What did you think about me that night we met?" Guy asked.
And for perhaps the hundredth time she whispered how she had liked him very much.
"Why don't you ask me what I thought about you?"
"What did you?" she whispered again.
"I went to sleep thinking of you," he said. "I did not know your name. I loved you then, I think. Pauline, when next September comes we'll pick mushrooms together—shall we? And I shall never gather any mushrooms, because I shall always be gathering your hands. And the September afterwards. Pauline! Shall we be married? Pauline Hazlewood! Say that."
She shook her head.
"Whisper it."
But she could not, and yet in her heart the foolish names were singing together.