“What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly. “What!” she exclaimed, half mocking. “This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this Atalanta—I believe she just lagged at last on purpose.” “You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was you—the apples of your firm heels—the apples of your eyes—the apples Eve bit—that won me—hein!” “That was it—you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists—they can’t stop me—and—and—all your roundness and warmness and softness—I’ve won you, Lettie.” She nodded wickedly, saying: “All those—those—yes.” “All—she admits it—everything!” “Oh!—but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?” “Yes, and you gave it me.” “Not yet. Everything though?” “Every atom.” “But—now you look——” “Did I look aside?” “With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels——” “Oh, dear—a sloppy angel!” “Well—don’t interrupt now—suppose I were one—like the ‘Blessed Damosel.’” “With a warm bosom——!” “Don’t be foolish, now—I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown beech leaves below thinking——” “What _are_ you driving at?” “Would you be thinking—thoughts like prayers?” “What on earth do you ask that for? Oh—I think I’d be cursing—eh?” “No—saying fragrant prayers—that your thin soul might mount up——” “Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand Pre-Raphaelities. You—You’re not a Burne-Jonesess—you’re an Albert Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer. I’ll pray with kisses.” “And when you can’t?” “I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By Jove, I’d rather feel my arms full of you; I’d rather touch that red mouth—you grudger!—than sing hymns with you in any heaven.” “I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.” “Well—I have you here—yes, I have you now.” “Our life is but a fading dawn?” “Liar!—Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace—I’ve forgotten him.” “Then poor old Horace.” “Ha! Ha!—Well, I shan’t forget _you_. What’s that queer look in your eyes?” “What is it?” “Nay—you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom of you.” “You can fathom the depth of a kiss——” “I will—I will——” After a while he asked: “When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?” “Oh, wait till Christmas—till I am twenty-one.” “Nearly three months! Why on earth——” “It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then.” “But three months!” “I shall consider thee engaged—it doesn’t matter about other people.” “I thought we should be married in three months.” “Ah—married in haste——. But what will your mother say?” “Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”