“Do you?”
“Yes; I do,” she answered honestly, “when I think of it. But you make it very hard for me to remember it when I’m with you.”
“Well, I don’t,” he said. “I suppose I’m a socialist in all matters of that kind. Not that I’ve ever given much thought to them. You don’t have to out here.”
“No; you wouldn’t. I don’t know that you would have to anywhere.... Are we almost home?”
“Three minutes’ more walking. Tired?”
“Not a bit. You know,” she added, “I really would like it if you’d write me once in a while. There’s something here I’d like to keep a hold on. It’s tonic. I’ll make you write me.” She flashed a smile at him.
“How?”
“By sending you books. You’ll have to acknowledge them.”
“No. I couldn’t take them. I’d have to send them back.”
“You wouldn’t let me send you a book or two just as a friendly memento?” she cried, incredulous.