“Not with you!” she answered happily. “Was that the right answer?”
“One hundred per cent correct! Look at the smoke from that farmer’s chimney—it goes up as straight as a column. Not a breath of air!”
“It’s a dear good old world,” she said, her eyes reflecting her enjoyment of the swift rush between the long stretches of white level fields broken by patches of woodland.
“What’s the dearest thing in all the world?” he demanded.
“You!” she replied.
“Wrong that time! It’s you!”
“I wonder how many lovers have said just that to each other?”
“Thousands—billions, no doubt. But that doesn’t matter. It never was as true of the others as it is of us.”
“We’re not conceited or anything!”
“No; just happy! Honestly and truly, are you happy?”