"Haven't you any cases?"
"One," he answered, "a case of life and death."
"You need not walk against me, Barbee; I am not a vine to need
propping. And you need not walk with me. I am quite used to
walking alone: my nurse taught me years ago."
"But now you have to learn _not_ to walk alone, Marguerite."
"It will be very difficult."
"It will be easy when the right man steps forward: am I the right
man?"
"I am going to the library. Good morning."
"So am I going to the library."
"Aren't all your authorities in your office?"
"All except one."
They turned into the quiet shady street: they were not the first to
do this.
When they reached the steps, Marguerite sank down.
"Why do I get so tired when I walk with you, Barbee? You exhaust
me _very_ rapidly."
He sat down not very near her, but soon edged a little closer.
Marguerite leaned over and looked intently at his big, thin ear.
"What a lovely red your ear is, seen against a clear sky. It would
make a beautiful lamp-shade."
"You may have both of them--and all the fixtures--solid brass--an
antique some day."
He edged a little closer.
Marguerite coughed and pointed across the street: "Aren't those
trees beautiful?"
"Oh, don't talk to me about trees! What do I care about _wood_!
You're the tree that I want to dig up, and take home, and plant,
and live under, and be buried by."
"That's a great deal--all in one sentence."
"Are you never going to love me a little, Marguerite?"
"How can I tell?"
"Don't torture me.
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