"Need you? Proposals sound like contracts and all those other dull forms; not like--that kiss.... See! There's Pat Kerr, Jr., waving to us. You can just make him out, there on the upper balcony. He is the darlingest child, with ash-blond hair cut Dutch style. I wonder if you didn't look like him when you were a boy, with your light hair?" "Not a chance. I was a grubby kid. Made noises.... Gee! what a bully place. And the house!... Will you marry me?" "Yes, I will!... It _is_ a dear place. Mrs. Pat is----" "When?" "----always fussing over it; she plants narcissuses and crocuses in the woods, so you find them growing wild." "I like those awnings. Against the white walls.... May I consider that we are engaged then, Miss Winslow--engaged for the next marriage?" "Oh no, no, not engaged, dear. Don't you know it's one of my principles----" "But look----" "----not to be engaged, Hawk? Everybody brings the cunnin' old jokes out of the moth-balls when you're engaged. I'll marry you, but----" "Marry me next month--August?" "Nope." "September?" "Nope." "Please, Ruthie. Aw yes, September. Nice month, September is. Autumn. Harvest moon. And apples to swipe. Come on. September." "Well, perhaps September. We'll see. Oh, Hawk dear, can you conceive of us actually sitting here and solemnly discussing being _married_? Us, the babes in the wood? And I've only known you three days or so, seems to me.... Well, as I was saying, _perhaps_ I'll marry you in September (um! frightens me to think of it; frightens me and awes me and amuses me to death, all at once). That is, I shall marry you unless you take to wearing pearl-gray derbies or white evening ties with black edging, or kill Mason in a duel, or do something equally disgraceful. But engaged I will not be. And we'll put the money for a diamond ring into a big davenport.... Are we going to be dreadfully poor?" "Oh, not pawn-shop poor. I made VanZile boost my salary, last week, and with my Touricar stock I'm getting a little over four thousand dollars a year." "Is that lots or little?" "Well, it 'll give us a decent apartment and a nearly decent maid, I guess. And if the Touricar keeps going, we can beat it off for a year, wandering, after maybe three four years." "I hope so. Here we are! That's Mrs. Pat waiting for us." The Patton Kerr house, set near the top of the highest hill in that range of the Berkshires, stood out white against a slope of crisp green; an old manor house of long lines and solid beams, with striped awnings of red and white, and in front a brick terrace, with basket-chairs, a swinging couch, and a wicker tea-table already welcomingly spread with a service of Royal Doulton. From the terrace one saw miles of valley and hills, and villages strung on a rambling river. The valley was a golden bowl filled with the peace of afternoon; a world of sun and listening woods.