"Yes," Agatha acquiesced, "I do."
"I'd have known it without your telling me. It's been a continual marvel all through our acquaintance, that ardent freshness of yours. It's confirmed my faith in immortality."
Agatha had no answer ready. He groped for her hand and took possession of it with becoming masterfulness.
"I've got something to say to you, something very important. I've meant to say it for an age, but I've been too much of a coward to risk a no."
Agatha was obliged to remind herself that she was almost seventy years of age. Otherwise she might have suspected she was listening to a proposal.
"Before I can explain my plan, I want to ask you something. Aren't you ever lonely here in winter?"
The question was less formidable than she had anticipated. Her quick assent showed relief.
"And aren't you going to miss me a little when I go back to the city?"
"Of course I shall," she said faintly, and instinctively tried to withdraw her hand. He tightened his hold, laughing.
"Please don't take it away. It does me good, and I'm sure it can't do you any harm. Now you've given me just the encouragement I needed. If you're lonely here, and if you're going to miss me, why shouldn't you and I set up housekeeping together?"