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XV
A poor devil will ask a woman to marry him. She will refuse him. The day after she will meet him as serenely as if he had asked her for a pin.
It is now May 15th, and I have not spoken to Georgian when I’ve had a chance. She has been entirely too happy, to judge from her singing, for me to get along with under the circumstances. But this morning, as I was planting a hedge inside my fence under her window, she leaned over and said, as though nothing were wrong between us, “What are you planting?”
I have sometimes thought that Georgiana can ask more questions than Socrates.
“A hedge.”
