"Let's take a stroll down there, shall we?" he asked.
The tremor of his voice told Mary more than his words.
"He wants to love me," she thought, and burying her face in her bouquet she said in a muffled little voice, "…I don't care."
They went down to the summer house, talking, trying to appear indifferent, but both of them knowing that a truly tremendous moment in their drama of life was close at hand.
They seated themselves opposite each other on the bench and Mary's dreamy eyes went out over the valley.
"Mary…." he began. She looked at him for a moment and then her glance went out over the valley again.
"Don't you think we've waited long enough?" he gently asked.
But Mary's eyes were still upon the valley below.
"In a way, I'm glad you've waited," he said. "Judge Cutler told me some of the wonderful things you did here during the war. But you don't want to be bothering with a factory as long as you live. It's grubby, narrow work, and there's so much else in life, so much that's beautiful and—and wonderful—"
For a fleeting moment a picture arose before Mary's eyes: a tired woman bending over a wash-tub with a crying child tugging at her skirt. "So much that's beautiful—and wonderful"—the words were still echoing around her, and almost without thinking she said a peculiar thing. "Suppose we were poor," said she.