At last, after eons, they reached the corner of her own yard. How unchanged, how natural everything looked here! Over there, across the stretch of white moonlight, sat the summerhouse, symbol of peace and every day, cloaked in its fragrant ramblers.
Ramblers! A sudden remembrance darted through Missy's perturbed brain. Her poor flowers—were they still out there? She must carry them into the house with her! On the impulse, without pausing to reflect that her action might look queer, she exclaimed: “Wait a minute!” and ran fleetly across the moonlit yard. In a second she had the bouquet out of the pitcher and was back again beside him, breathless.
“I left them out there,” she said. “I—I forgot them. And I didn't want to leave them out there all night.”
Jim bent down and sniffed at the roses. “They smell awfully sweet, don't they?” he said.
Suddenly, without premeditation, Missy extended them to him. “You may have them,” she offered.
“I?” He received them awkwardly. “That's awfully sweet of you. Say, you are sweet, aren't you?”
“You may have them if you want them,” she repeated.
Jim, still holding the bunch awkwardly, had an inspiration.
“I do want them. And now, if they're really mine, I want to do with them what I'd like most to do with them. May I?”
“Why, of course.”