"Untruthfulness," she answered, smiling, "seems to play an important part in the simple life."
"He had described you to a man called Barton," I explained, "and the scoundrel had pronounced you to be Mrs. Congreve."
"Ah," she said, "my sister also has red hair. She and Walter came down this afternoon. But for the urgent business, you would have met them at tea."
I looked at her for a moment, and then suddenly all the ridiculous little trimmings of life whisked away into the infinite. I opened the gate, and took the milk-jug out of her hands.
"I love you!" I said simply.
"That is very nice of you," she answered; "but do be careful with the milk."
"I love you," I repeated, with firmness, "and I want you to marry me."
The corners of her mouth twitched divinely.
"This," she said, "is no place for a proposal. If you really want to marry me, you must come up to Otter's Holt, and woo me properly."
But her eyes had given me my answer.