“But I must talk money a little, dear. I have my way to make in the world.”
“Thrifty, practical, and Yankee!” she jested. “I suppose you can't help it!”
“It isn't for myself—it's for you!” he returned, wistfully, and with a voice and demeanor he offered himself as Love's sacrifice before her—the old story of utter devotion—the ancient sacrifice.
“I have all I want,” she insisted.
“But I must be able to give you what you want!”
“I warn you that I hate money-grubbers! They haven't a spark of romance in them. Boyd, you'd be like all the rest in a little while. You mustn't do it.”
“But I must have position—means before I dare to go to your father—if I ever shall be able to go to him!”
“Go to him for what?”
“To ask him—to say—to—well, when we feel that I'm in a position where we can be married—”
“Of course we shall be married some day, boy, but all that will take care of itself when the time comes. But now you are— How old are you, Boyd?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And I am nineteen. And what has marriage to do with the love we are enjoying right now?”
“When folks are in love they want to get married.”
“Granted! But when lovers are wise they will treat romance at first as the epicure treats his glass of good wine. They will pour it slowly and hold the glass up against the light and admire its color!” In her gay mood she pinched together thumb and forefinger and lifted an imaginary glass to the sun. “Then they will sniff the bouquet. Ah-h-h, how fragrant! And after a time they will take a little sip—just a weeny little sip and hold it on the tongue for ever so long. For, when it is swallowed, what good? Oh, boy, here are you—talking first of all about marriage! Talking of the good wine of life and love as if it were a fluid simply to satisfy thirst. We are going to love, first of all! Come, I will teach you.”
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