"Fidget shall go—yes, he shall go walking;" and Fidget made a gray ball of himself in his joy at the permission.
Up the hill again we walked, with the little Skye terrier cantering in advance or madly chasing the chickens across the road.
"Did you finish your letter satisfactorily?" I asked, for I was fretting with impatience to know its contents.
"Yes. I will give it to you when you leave to-night."
"Shall we say next Saturday, Bessie?" said I, resolving to plunge at once into the sea of our late argument.
"For what? For you to come again? Don't you always come on Saturday?"
"Yes, but this time I mean to carry you away."
A dead pause, which I improved by drawing her hand under my arm and imprisoning her little gray glove with my other hand. As she did not speak, I went on fatuously: "You don't need any preparation of gowns and shawls; you can buy your trousseau in London, if need be; and we'll settle on the ship, coming over, how and where we are to live in New York."
"You think, then, that I am all ready to be married?"
"I think that my darling is superior to the nonsense of other girls—that she will be herself always, and doesn't need any masquerade of wedding finery."