"No, indeed!"
"Well, then, the week after?"
"No, Peregrine, not—not until I am fit to be your wife—"
"That of course is now, Diana, this very moment!"
Here, having tossed back a loosened tress of glossy hair, she shook grave head at me.
"I must be sure I am—I must know myself a little—more fit—"
"A month, Diana!"
"Two, Peregrine!"
"We will get married in a month and camp hereabouts in these silent places all the summer. And when winter comes, I'll buy a little cottage somewhere, anywhere—wherever you choose—"
"Even then I—shouldn't be quite happy, Peregrine."