"Thank you, sir; I'd think a great deal of it. Will you have some more tea?"
"No, no more tea, Zephania. No more anything. You may take the things out."
Later in the evening came Doctor Crimmins, very regretful and full of arguments in favor of postponing action. When twilight passed they went out onto the porch with their pipes and glasses. They talked as friends talk on the eve of parting, often of trivial things, with long pauses between. The moon came up over the tree tops, round and full, and flooded the garden with silver.
"'The moon, serene in glory, mounts the sky,'" murmured the Doctor. "'The wandering moon'—how does it go? I'm thinking of some lines of Milton's. Let me see; ah!"
"'The wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that has been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way.'"
Later, when the lights of the village had disappeared one by one under the tranquil elms, the Doctor returned to the attack.
"Take another week to think it over, Herrick," he urged. "Who knows what may happen in a week, eh? Women's minds have been known to change before this, my friend."