“I’m deciding something, Holly-berry,” Rodney answered, not smiling at her nonsense. “I’m wondering what you’d want me to do about a certain thing, on which I can’t consult you without giving the thing away, so you never would have a chance to decide it, after all. Sounds mysterious, but it’s the best I can do by way of answering you. I’m wondering how you’d react under something I’ve a mind to do. You’re the frankest human being I ever knew, Cis; you never have hidden meanings, nor lay a plot; you act outright and talk right out! Yet I’m not one bit sure of what you’d do under untried conditions; you’re capable of doing one of two completely opposite things.” “Well,” said Cis lightly, in too contented a frame of mind to pay close attention to what Rodney might be implying, “I’m glad you can’t tell which way I’d jump. Sounds quite impressive, but probably it’s something like whether I’d go back on my bronzey little library and go in for red, after I’d sworn no red should come into my happy home! I’m more interesting if I’m uncertain; that’s why you like women, you men, my Rory; they keep you guessing! I’m dreadfully afraid you do know all I think, and what I’d do, but it’s dear of you to pretend I’m a nice sphinxy-sphynx!” Rodney laughed; he had instantly regretted speaking as he had spoken, and he was glad that Cis’s incorrigible light-heartedness prevented her from taking him seriously, gave him longer to decide whether he should pursue his original plan, and tell Cis the secret which he meant to tell her after their marriage, or put himself at her mercy by telling her at once. He knew that this was the only honorable course; he knew that, if their places were reversed, Cis would deal thus with him. It was the last Sunday in November, the first Sunday in Advent, and Cis and Rodney were happily on their way to look at the three chairs of unusual design, and the beautiful mahogany table which, so Rodney delighted to put it to Cis, he “had sent home.” The day enveloped them with the caresses of Saint Martin’s Summer; warm sunshine; gentle air that brushed over them as they walked, like wings that bore blessings; a cloudless sky, veiled with hazy warmth that softened, yet did not conceal the bright blue that stretched from horizon to horizon. “The winter of our discontent is turned glorious summer by our sunny walk,” said Rodney, making an attempt to retain the sound and not the sense of the quotation which was lost on Cis. “Almost December first, only two days distant, and even this light-weight overcoat a burden! It’s what my grandmother used to call a weather-breeder.” “I don’t see why people want to take the polish off of a day like this!” cried Cis. “A day like this is a present from heaven, and I don’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth. Rory O’Moore, don’t you think it came just to rejoice with us and strew our path to our new little home?”