Mary's hands stilled themselves, and she looked at him anxiously. "Why are you doing that?" she asked.
"Don't you want the picture?"
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Give it to you, I guess. For a wedding-present, Mary."
"You mustn't say those things," said Mary, gravely. She went on working, but her face was serious.
"It's queer, isn't it," remarked Wilmer, after a pause, "this notion you've got that Marshby's the only one that could possibly do? I began asking you first."
"Please!" said Mary. Her eyes were full of tears. That was rare for her, and Wilmer saw it meant a shaken poise. She was less certain to-day of her own fate. It made her more responsively tender toward his. He sat up and looked at her.
"No," he said. "No. I won't ask you again. I never meant to. Only I have to speak of it once in a while. We should have such a tremendously good time together."
"We have a tremendously good time now," said Mary, the smile coming while she again put up the back of her hand and brushed her eyes. "When you're good."