"That is what we all need," answered Eloise.
Allan flashed a quick glance at her. "Even I," he said, in a different tone, "but I must wait for mine."
"We all wait for things," she laughed, but the lovely colour had mounted to the roots of her hair that waved so softly back from her low forehead.
"When, dear?" insisted Allan, possessing himself of her hand.
"I promised once," she answered. "When the colour is all gone from the hills and the last leaves have fallen, then I'll come."
"You're not counting the oaks?" he asked, half fearfully. "Sometimes the oak leaves stay on all Winter, you know. And evergreens are ruled out, aren't they?"
"Certainly. We won't count the oaks or the Christmas trees. Long before Santa Claus comes, I'll be a sedate matron instead of a flyaway, frivolous spinster."
"For the first time since I grew up," remarked Allan, with evident sincerity, "I wish Christmas came earlier. Upon what day, fair lady, do you think the leaves will be gone?"
"In November, I suppose," she answered, with an affected indifference that did not deceive him. "The day after Thanksgiving, perhaps."