“Because––lots of reasons. I must help mother––and I’m only seventeen, and––”
“Most eighteen, I know, because––”
“Well, anyway, mother says no girl of hers shall marry before she’s of age, and she says that means twenty-one, and––”
“That’s all right. I can wait. Kiss me, Betty.” But she was silent, with face turned from him. Again he lifted her face to his. “I say, kiss me, Betty. Just one? That was a stingy little kiss. You know I’m going away, and that is why I spoke to you now. I didn’t dare go without telling you this first. You’re so sweet, Betty, some one might find you out and love you––just as I have––only not so deeply in love with you––no one could––but some one might come and win you away from me, and so I must make sure that you will marry me when you are of age and I come back for you. Promise me.”
“Where?––why––Peter Junior! Where are you going?” Betty removed his arm from around her waist and slipped to her own end of the seat. There, with hands folded decorously 93 in her lap, with heightened color and serious eyes, she looked shyly up at him. He had never seen her shy before. Always she had been merry and teasing, and his heart was proud that he had wrought such a miracle in her.
“I am going to Paris. I mean to be an artist.” He leaned toward her and would have taken her in his arms again, but she put his hands away.
“Will your father let you do that?” Her eyes widened with surprise, and the surprise nettled him.
“I don’t know. He’s thinking about it. Anyway, a man must decide for himself what his career will be, and if he won’t let me, I’ll earn the money and go without his letting me.”
“Wouldn’t that be the best way, anyway?”
“What do you mean? To go without his consent?”