"The purchase will be drawn up in your name. You will sign the deed. Receive the wood, with my love. It is a second engagement ring."
"But is it—is it mine? Can I—do what I like there?"
"You can," said Mr. Worters, smiling.
She rushed at him and kissed him. She kissed Mrs. Worters. She would have kissed myself and Ford if we had not extruded elbows. The joy of possession had turned her head.
"It's mine! I can walk there, work there, live there. A wood of my own! Mine for ever."
"Yours, at all events, for ninety-nine years."
"Ninety-nine years?" I regret to say there was a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
"My dear child! Do you expect to live longer?"
"I suppose I can't," she replied, and flushed a little. "I don't know."
"Ninety-nine seems long enough to most people. I have got this house, and the very lawn you are standing on, on a lease of ninety-nine years. Yet I call them my own, and I think I am justified. Am I not?"