“We’ll be married in a month. We’ll be married on Saint Valentine’s Day,” Michael announced.
“It’s so wet now to think of weddings.” She looked peevishly out of the window.
“You haven’t got to think about it. You’ve got to do it.”
“And it’s so dull,” she objected. “Sylvia says it’s appallingly dull. And she’s been married.”
“What has Sylvia got to do with it?” he demanded.
“Oh, well, she’s been awfully sweet to me. And after all, when mother died, what was I to do? I couldn’t bear Doris any more. She always gets on my nerves. Anyway, don’t let’s talk about marriage now. In the summer I shall feel more cheerful. I hate this weather.”
“But look here,” he persisted. “Are you in love with me?”
She nodded, yet too doubtfully to please him.
“Well, if you’re not in love with me....”
“Oh, I am, I am! Don’t shout so, Michael. If I wasn’t awfully fond of you, I shouldn’t have made Sylvia ask you to come back. She hates men coming here.”