XV
A Poor devil will ask a woman to marry him. She will refuse him. The day after she will meet him as serenely as if he had asked her for a pin.
It is now May 15th, and I have not spoken to Georgians when I've had a chance. She has been entirely too happy, to judge from her singing, for me to get along with under the circumstances. But this morning, as I was planting a hedge inside my fence under her window, she leaned over and said, as though nothing were wrong between us, "What are you planting?"
I have sometimes thought that Georgiana can ask more questions than
Socrates.
"A hedge."
"What for?"
"To grow."
"What do you want it to grow for?"
"My garden is too public. I wish to be protected from outsiders."
"Would it be the same thing if I were to nail up this window? That would be so much quicker. It will be ten years before your hedge is high enough to keep me from seeing you. And even then, you know, I could move up-stairs. But I am so sorry to be an outsider."