But Tish is a woman of delicacy, and she suggested that Myrtle do it herself, from an upper window. I went up with her, and we found Mr. Culver again under the tree. The conversation ran like this:
Myrtle, (looking very pretty indeed but very firm): Look here, I—I’ve decided not to marry you.
Mr. Culver (rousing suddenly and staring up at her): I beg your pardon!
Myrtle: I know now that I was making a terrible mistake. No matter how much I care for you, I cannot marry a slacker.
Mr. C. (furiously angry and glaring at her): You know better than that!
Myrtle: Not at all. Can you deny that you haven’t registered yet?
Mr. C.: What’s that got to do with it? I daresay I’m losing my mind. It wouldn’t be much wonder if I have. When I think of the way I’ve suffered lately—look at me!
Myrtle (in a somewhat softened voice): Have you really suffered?
Mr. C.: I? Good Lord, Myrtle—why, I haven’t slept for weeks. I——
But here he stopped, with his eyes fixed on the roof overhead.