Eliot was very far from being subservient. Almost before the neighbourhood’s congratulations had ceased to rain about them both he was demanding that Ann should fix the date of their wedding.
“You impatient man!” she teased him. “Why, we’re only just this minute engaged! We shan’t be married for ages and ages yet.”
“Oh, shan’t we?” he retorted. “We’ll be married in May, sweetheart. That’s exactly as long as I’ll consent to wait. And I’m only agreeing to that because a woman always seems to think it’s part of the ceremony to buy a quantity of clothes when she’s married—just as though she couldn’t buy them afterwards quite as well as before!”
“In May? Oh, no, Eliot.” Ann shook her head with decision. “That’s the unlucky month for marriages.”
“You don’t mean to say you’re superstitious?”
“I don’t know.” She spoke uncertainly. “But—we’ve had so much ill-luck. I don’t think I want to tempt Providence by getting married in May.”
He shouted with laughter.
“Very well, you absurd baby, it shan’t be May,” he conceded, adding cheerfully: “We’ll fix it for April then.”
“No, no. That’s too soon,” she protested hastily. “Let’s decide on—June.”
“April,” he repeated firmly.