"Don't want any good times without you!" I said, obstinately.
"All right," said he. "We'll have them together. I'll renew my youth!"
"Don't be absurd! You're a mere infant!"
"Second childhood," he said, "you've been an elixir of youth to me; of life itself."
"You do say such nice things," I sighed. "That comes of being a poet!"
"Poet be hanged!" said Bill. "It comes of being in love—with—you—with you—"
That was a very nice drive. After all, the hansom has advantages. One can sit awfully close, and hold hands under the shiny, wooden apron.
Wednesday Mother came. I called her that right off. She was the dearest thing, with such curly red hair and eyes the color of Bill's, only a different shape. She was littler than I even, with hands and feet that were wholly ridiculous. Father was immediately enchanted with her. The four of us had a long talk, all one soft Spring day, interrupted by Uncle John, and by getting Peter and Sarah safely off to Green Hill. And then, while I was resting, she had her talk with her son, and came to me later, after I had gone to bed.
She curled up beside me in a wonderful blue negligée which made her look like a girl. And we talked—and talked.
"You're the nicest thing that Bill has given me," I said, happily, before she left, "and Bill's the nicest thing you could give me. You don't feel," I begged, "that I am taking him away from you—?"