“Good!” cried the Harvester. “I hoped so! Ruth, you wouldn't allow me to hold your hand just until we reach the cafe'? It might save me from bursting with joy.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I must take off my lovely gloves first. I want to keep them forever.”
“I'd hate the glove being removed dreadfully,” said the Harvester, his eyes dancing and snapping.
“I'm sorry I am so thin and shaky,” said the Girl. “I will be steady and plump soon, won't I?”
“On your life you will,” said the Harvester, taking the hand gently.
Now there are a number of things a man deeply in love can think of to do with a woman's white hand. He can stroke it, press it tenderly, and lay it against his lips and his heart. The Harvester lacked experience in these arts, and yet by some wonderful instinct all of these things occurred to him. There was real colour in the Girl's cheeks by the time he helped her into the cafe'. They were guided to a small room, cool and restful, close a window, beside which grew a tree covered with talking leaves. A waiting attendant, who seemed perfectly adept, brought in steaming bouillon, fragrant tea, broiled chicken, properly cooked vegetables, a wonderful salad, and then delicious ices and cold fruit. The happy Harvester leaned back and watched the Girl daintily manage almost as much food as he wanted to see her eat.
When they had finished, “Now we are going home,” he said. “Will you try to like it, Ruth?”
“Indeed I will,” she promised. “As soon as I grow accustomed to the dreadful stillness, and learn what things will not bite me, I'll be better.”
“I'll have to ask you to wait a minute,” he said. “One thing I forgot. I must hire a man to take Betsy home.”
“Aren't you going to drive her yourself?”