“You like music, don’t you?” asked Lydia.
“I guess so; I don’t know much about it. Some crazy German post-grads at Cornell used to make up a string quartette among themselves and play some things I liked to hear—I guess it was pretty good music, too. They were sharks on it, I know. Yes; now I think of it, I used to like it fine. Maybe if I heard more—”
“Oh, the evenings together!” breathed Lydia. “Doesn’t it take your breath away to think of them? We’ll read together—”
Paul saw the picture. “Yes; there’re lots of books I’ve always meant to get around to.”
They were silent, musing.
Then Paul laughed aloud. Lydia started and looked at him inquiringly.
“Oh, I was just thinking how old married folks would laugh to hear us infants planning our little castles in Spain. You know how they always smile at such ideas, and say every couple starts out with them and after about six months gets down to concentrating on keeping up the furnace fire and making sure the biscuits are good.”
Lydia laid her hand eagerly on his arm. “But don’t let’s, Paul! Please, please don’t let us! Just because everybody else does is no reason why we have to. You’re always saying folks can make things go their way if they try hard enough—you’re so clever and—”
“Oh, I’m a wonder, I know! You needn’t tell me how smart I am.”
“But, Paul, I’m in earnest—I mean it—”