"I think fifty pounds will clear me," said Marjorie, clinging to her long-established total, "if you'll let me have that." "Oh, we don't do things like that," said Trafford. "I'm arranging that my current account will be a sort of joint account, and your signature will be as good as mine--for the purpose of drawing, at least. You'll have your own cheque-book----" "I don't understand, quite," said Marjorie. "You'll have your own cheque-book and write cheques as you want them. That seems the simplest way to me." "Of course," said Marjorie. "But isn't this--rather unusual? Father always used to allowance mother." "It's the only decent way according to my ideas," said Trafford. "A man shouldn't marry when he can't trust." "Of course not," said Marjorie. Something between fear and compunction wrung her. "Do you think you'd better?" she asked, very earnestly. "Better?" "Do this." "Why not?" "It's--it's so generous." He didn't answer. He took up an oar and began to push out from among the reeds with something of the shy awkwardness of a boy who becomes apprehensive of thanks. He stole a glance at her presently and caught her expression--there was something very solemn and intent in her eyes--and he thought what a grave, fine thing his Marjorie could be. But, indeed, her state of mind was quite exceptionally confused. She was disconcerted--and horribly afraid of herself. "Do you mean that I can spend what I like?" asked Marjorie. "Just as I may," he said. "I wonder," said Marjorie again, "if I'd better." She was tingling with delight at this freedom, and she knew she was not fit for its responsibility. She just came short of a passionate refusal of his proposal. He was still so new to her, and things were so wonderful, or I think she would have made that refusal. "You've got to," said Trafford, and ended the matter. So Marjorie was silent--making good resolutions. § 2 Perhaps some day it may be possible to tell in English again, in the language of Shakspeare and Herrick, of the passion, the tenderness, the beauty, and the delightful familiarizations of a happy honeymoon; suffice it now, in this delicate period, to record only how our two young lovers found one day that neither had a name for the other. He said she could be nothing better than Marjorie to him; and she, after a number of unsuccessful experiments, settled down to the old school-boy nickname made out of his initials, R. A. G. "Dick," she said, "is too bird-like and boy-like. Andrew I can't abide. Goodwin gives one no chances for current use. Rag you must be. Mag and Rag--poor innocents! Old rag!" "Mag," he said, "has its drawbacks! The street-boy in London says, 'Shut your mag.' No, I think I shall stick to Marjorie...."