“But now you have to learn not to walk alone, Marguerite.”

“It will be very difficult.”

“It will be easy when the right man steps forward:  am I the right man?”

“I am going to the library.  Good morning.”

“So am I going to the library.”

“Aren’t all your authorities in your office?”

“All except one.”

They turned into the quiet shady street:  they were not the first to do this.

When they reached the steps, Marguerite sank down.

“Why do I get so tired when I walk with you, Barbee?  You exhaust me very rapidly.”

He sat down not very near her, but soon edged a little closer.

Marguerite leaned over and looked intently at his big, thin ear.

“What a lovely red your ear is, seen against a clear sky.  It would make a beautiful lamp-shade.”

“You may have both of them—­and all the fixtures—­solid brass—­an antique some day.”

He edged a little closer.

Marguerite coughed and pointed across the street:  “Aren’t those trees beautiful?”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about trees!  What do I care about wood!  You’re the tree that I want to dig up, and take home, and plant, and live under, and be buried by.”

“That’s a great deal—­all in one sentence.”

“Are you never going to love me a little, Marguerite?”

“How can I tell?”

“Don’t torture me.”

“What am I doing?”

“You are not doing anything, that’s the trouble.  The other night
I was sure you loved me.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“But you looked it.”

“Then I looked all wrong:  I shall change my looks.”

“Will you name the day?”

“What day?”

“The day.”

“I’ll name them all:  Monday, Tuesday—­”

“Ah, Lord—­”

“Barbee, I’m going to sing you a love song—­an old, old, old love song.  Did you ever hear one?”

“I have been hearing mine for some time.”

“This goes back to grandmother’s time.  But it’s the man’s song:  you ought to be singing it to me.”

“I shall continue to sing my own.”

Marguerite began to sing close to Barbee’s ear: 

  “I’ll give to you a paper of pins,
  If that’s the way that love begins,
  If you will marry me, me, me,
  If you will marry me.”

“Pins!” said Barbee; “why, that old-time minstrel must have been singing when pins were just invented.  You can have—­”

Marguerite quieted him with a finger on his elbow: 

  “I’ll give to you a dress of red,
  Bound all around with golden thread,
  If you will marry me, me, me,
  If you will marry me.”

“How about a dress not simply bound with golden thread but made of it, made of nothing else! and then hung all over with golden ornaments and the heaviest golden utensils?”