“Give it me,” she besought humbly.
He laid it in her open hand and she tore it into minute bits, opened the casement, and cast it out. The wind caught it, carried it, and shed it like snowflakes over the ridged furrows.
“We needn’t wait long for the wedding,” he said, as she latched the casement and came back to the green chair.
It pleased him to watch her changing face, now pink like Nancy’s, now white like the hidden skin on his own arms and chest.
“When you like,” she returned docilely—thinking it would be better to settle soon.
“And I’ve drawn you a check—a year’s salary and a year more instead of notice,” he continued, twisting up his face into cunning wrinkles with satisfaction at his own artifice. “Take Aunt Sophy with you into Liddleshorn and buy clothes.”
She took the strip of paper, her eyes dilating at the magnificence of the amount.
“You are a great deal too good to me.”
“When we are married,” he went on, pressing her hand jovially, “I’ll make any alterations about the place you like. But the carriage drive must wait till winter—hedging and ditching time; labor’s cheap then. How about inside?”
“I should like a bath-room.”