"Like men," he commented, meeting her then a trifle more than half way.
"Yes, they have to be petted and fussed over, just like men. Now, Karl, are you listening or are you not?"
He assured her that he was listening.
"Then, this afternoon, Georgia came out and we went for a row on the lagoon in Jackson Park. Did you happen to look out and see how beautiful it was this afternoon, Karl? I wish you would do that once in a while. Germs and cells and things aren't so very aesthetic, you know, and I don't like to have you miss things. I was thinking about you as we passed the university. It seemed such a big, wonderful place, and I love to think of what it is your work really means. I am so proud of you, Karl!"
"And was it nice down there?" he asked, just to bring her back to her story of the day.
"So beautiful! You and I must go often now that the spring evenings have come. There is one place where you come out from a bridge, and can see the German building, left from the World's Fair, across a great sweep of lights and shadows. People who want to go to Europe and can't, should go down there and look at that. It's so old-worldish.
"Then Georgia and I had a fine talk,"—after another warm, happy silence. "Georgia never was so nice. She was telling me all about a man. I shouldn't wonder; but I mustn't tell even you—not yet. Then I came home and here were the beautiful flowers from Dr. Parkman. Karl—you did tell him! Honest now—you did—and it was awful. Why didn't you put it in the university paper so that all the students could send me things? That nice boy, Harry Wyman, wrote a poem about me—'To the Lovely Lady'—now you needn't laugh! And oh, I don't know, but it all seemed so beautiful and right when I came home this afternoon. I love our house more and more. I love those funny knobs on the doors, and this library seems just us! I was so happy I couldn't keep from singing, and you know I can't sing at all. Then you came home! You had the box out in your hand—I saw it clear across the street. You were smiling just like a boy. I shall never forget how you looked as you gave me the ring. I think, after all, that look was my real birthday gift.—Now, Karl, don't you know you shouldn't have bought such a ring? But, oh!—I, am so happy, sweetheart."
He kissed her. His heart was very full. There was nothing he could say, so he kissed her again and laid his cheek upon her hair.
He knew she was growing sleepy. Sleep was coming to her as it does to the child who has had its long, happy day. But like the child, she would not give up until the last. It was true, he was sure, that she was loath to let the day go.
"The play to-night was very nice," she said, rousing a little, "but so short-sighted."