Her face was flushed enough now, but she made no answer save to stoop
down and pat the silly little terrier that had come trotting into the
room with her.
"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.
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