I was going to buy an automobile--one of those low ones as
long as a Pullman car--and fill it with roses, and come dashing up to your
front door and take you for a ride through the hills. It was to be autumn.
I had even that fixed," he laughed. "Oh, I had everything thought out! And
you were going to be so proud of me!... But I couldn't find a fortune-tree
anywhere...." He looked away, embarrassed. He hadn't meant to tell her
this.
"Gil!" she cried.
"I guess they don't grow any more. At least, not in this part of the
country." He rose, a bit wearily, and walked over to the mantel-piece.
"What did you do, Gil?" she asked, her eyes following him.
"Well, I was a time-keeper on a railroad and weigh-boss in a coal mine.
After that I punched cows until I got uncle to come here. Then the war
started, and--that's all."
Then she asked what a woman always asks.
"Why didn't you ever write to me, Gil?"
"I was waiting for some good news to tell you. I felt you would consider me
a failure--a rank failure. I couldn't have stood that. Women don't know how
proud men are about that."
"Maybe we don't--and maybe we do, Gil." She went closer to him. "Why don't
you marry?" she dared to inquire.
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