"I should like nothing better," said Kenyon, "but as a matter of fact I shall wait until Peter has got through his various engagements. He rows at Henley in July, you know,—the boat is entered for the Lady's Plate,—and then he comes home with me. He wants to shoot my father's birds in August and see a little of English country life before he settles down to his law work in America."
Belle was silent for a few moments. She wished that this wonderful week could be extended over the whole of her holidays. She knew, and was really a little frightened at knowing, that when she left Oxford the next day she would leave behind her a heart that had hitherto been quite untouched. She was amazed and even a little annoyed to find that a mere week had brought about such a revolution in all her feelings and in her whole outlook on life. She had meant to have a perfectly wonderful time before falling in love.
"I suppose," she said, "that we shan't hear anything of you until we see you again, unless,—unless you write sometimes to mother and tell her how you are and what Peter is doing."
Kenyon didn't even smile. "Peter will write to your mother once a week, as usual—he's very consistent—and I'll get him to put in a postscript about me, if you like. I shall have some difficulty in preventing myself from writing to you from time to time, although I'm a child in the art of letter-writing."
"Why should you prevent it? I should simply love to have your letters."
"But isn't your mother a little old-fashioned?"
"Maybe," said Belle, "but does that matter? You've not met any American girls before—that's easy to see. We do just what we like, and if our mothers don't agree they don't dare to say so. Shall I tell you why? Because it wouldn't make any difference if they did."
"Then I shall write," said Kenyon, "and give you brief but eloquent descriptions of English weather, English politics and the condition of my liver,—that is to say, the three inevitable topics of this country."
Belle laughed. "Then it will be perfectly safe for me to leave your letters about," she said.
"Perfectly,—always supposing that you censor the postscripts."