Andrew was a good deal affected.
"Clarrie," he said softly, "will you be my wife?"
She clung to him in reply. He kissed her fondly.
"Clarrie, beloved," he said nervously, after a long pause, "how much are seven and thirteen?"
"Twenty-three," said Clarrie, putting up her mouth to his.
Andrew laughed a sad vacant laugh.
He felt that he would never understand a woman. But his fingers wandered through her tobacco-coloured hair.
He had a strange notion.
"Put your arms round my neck," he whispered.
Thus the old, old story was told once more.