"I—I think I'd rather not," said Abner, tendering an apologetic hand.
He wrote to Medora endless plaints about the discomforts of country hotels; and she, remembering how he had once luxuriated in these very crudities—he had called them authentic, characteristic, and other long words ending in tic—smiled broadly. It seemed as if that fortnight in the Whyland house had finally done for him.
"He will become quite like the rest of us in time," she said;—"and in no great time, either!"
In the early days of June Abner spoke. Medora listened and considered.
"I am like Clytie Summers——" she began slowly.
"You are not a bit like her!" interrupted Abner, with all haste.
"In one respect," Medora finished: "when I get married I want to get married for good. As Clytie says, it is the most satisfactory way in the long run, and the long run is what I have in mind."
Abner flushed. "I can promise you that, I think."
"You must."
"I do."