“Glad? But I can’t afford to think about girls.”
“I don’t care! As soon as I saw you, I hoped there was a girl,” Miss Cigale went on. “Because you’re such a dear, obstinate, helpless, splendid boy, and I hoped there was some one to see all that. She does, doesn’t she?”
Geordie had grown very red.
“She sees the obstinacy, anyhow,” he answered. “You see, she’s a secretary, and—” His jaw set doggedly. “She won’t give up her job!” he said. “And I won’t get married unless she does.”
“Too many won’ts!” said Miss Cigale.
“Well, all of them together make a pretty big can’t,” said he. “We can’t get married, that’s all. I’ve tried to make her see that we could manage, but she says we can’t. Those—those tickets, you know. I bought her a ring, and a—” He had to stop for a moment. “A little inlaid writing desk for our home. Only—it’s nearly a year, and she won’t see that we can manage without her salary, and I won’t—”
“Oh, Geordie!” protested Miss Cigale.
“I won’t!” said he. “I won’t!” And a more mulish expression was never seen on a young man before.
“Do get a taxi!” Miss Cigale suggested.