back from his office, he explained, and enjoying himself in his own way in the greenhouse.
"I'm going to ask your daughter to marry me," I said. "I think we've been waiting long enough."
"I don't approve of long engagements either," said her father. "But Marion will have her own way about it anyhow. Seen this new powdered fertilizer?"
I went in to talk to Mrs. Ramboat. "She'll want time to get her things," said Mrs. Ramboat. . . .
I and Marion sat down together on a little seat under some trees at the top of Putney Hill, and I came to my point abruptly.
"Look here, Marion," I said, "are you going to marry me or are you not?"
She smiled at me. "Well," she said, "we're engaged—aren't we?"
"That can't go on for ever. Will you marry me next week?"
She looked me in the face. "We can't," she said.
"You promised to many me when I had three hundred a year."
She was silent for a space. "Can't we go on for a time as we are? We could marry on three hundred a year. But it means a very little house. There's Smithie's brother. They manage on two hundred and fifty, but that's very little. She says they have a semi-detached house almost on the road, and hardly a bit of garden. And the wall to next-door is so thin, they hear everything. When her baby cries—they rap. And people stand against the railings and talk. . . . Can't we wait? You're doing so well."
An extraordinary bitterness possessed me at this invasion of the stupendous beautiful business of love