"Sometimes," said he, "I have dreamt of you as sitting there— in that chair, close to that fire. A presumptuous dream!"
He regarded her anxiously.
"A lovely one," said she.
"But the room must not be like this," said he. "No—a better one—larger—with a bow window, and a little garden outside, and—You know that house of the Beckets, at the other side of the village?"
"Too big!" said she. "What I like is this—just this." She glanced at the wall near her. "What a charming picture!"
"You like it? My father gave it to me a year ago. You think you could be happy here—even here? You would be content with me?"
"Content!" Her tone was answer enough. "Do not have a doubt," said she eagerly. "Do not spoil one single moment of ours."
At this moment a whistle loud and long came to them through the open window.
Agatha started.
"I must go," said she. "Though I'm certain it can't be five minutes yet."