“I know what you are thinking. But stop it!” she held one of her crushed blossoms to his lips. “What was this made for? Why hasn't it some work to do? Isn't it a skulker—blooming here for only a night?”
“'Ripen, fall, and cease!'” Paul murmured.
“How much more am I—are you, then? The sum of us may amount to something, if we mind our own business and keep step with each other, and finish one thing before we begin the next. I will not be in a hurry about being good. Goodness can take care of itself. What you need is to be happy! And it's my first duty to make you so.”
“God knows what bliss it would be.”
“Don't say 'would be.'”
“God knows it is!”
“Then hush and be thankful!” There was a long hush. They heard the far, faint notes of a bugle sounding from the Post.
“Lights out,” said Moya. “We must go.”
“You haven't told me yet where our Garden is to be,” he said.
“I will tell you on the way home.”