When I happened in a few minutes later, they were ritually burning the “Dear Friend and Admirer” letter in a slow candle-flame, and Harvey Wheelwright, as represented by his unctuously rolling signature, was writhing in merited torment. Between them they told me their little romance.
“And he’s not going to Kansas City,” said Barbran defiantly.
“I’m not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran,” said young Phil.
“And he’s going to paint what he wants to.”
“Pictures of Barbran,” said young Phil.
“And we’re going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe off the walls and make the place a success,” said Barbran.
“And we’re going to be married right away,” said Phil.
“Next week,” said Barbran.
“What do you think?” said both.
Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself. I should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying on twenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts. I should have preached prudence and caution and delay, and have pointed out—The wind blew the door open: Young Spring was in the park, and the wet odor of little burgeoning leaves was borne in, wakening unwithered memories in my withered heart.