They took the return trip leisurely, drinking in the glories of the night, and allowing time for the play of conversation. Bert Morrison was a good conversationalist. Her points of interest were almost infinite. And they were back among the street lights before they knew.
"Oh, we are nearly home," she exclaimed. "And, honest, Dave, I wanted to ask you something. Why don't you get married?"
"I guess I'm too sympathetic," he answered, after a moment's pause. "And it wouldn't be fair—"
"Oh, can that. It's been warmed over once already. Really, though, why don't you?"
"Why should I?"
"Why shouldn't you? It's natural. And you know you can't go on always just putting it off. It leaves your life empty. To-night, when I asked you if you had had dinner, you said, 'Such a meal as a man eats alone.' That betrays the emptiness."
"I suppose it does. But I don't know many girls. I don't know any girl very well, except you, and you wouldn't have me."
"No, I wouldn't," she answered frankly. "I like you too well. But you know other girls, and you could get to know more if you wanted to. There's Edith Duncan, for instance."
"Edith is a fine girl. The Duncans are wonderful people. I owe to them almost everything. But as for marrying Edith—"
"Why not?"