Both were now of the same mind, and there could be but the one ending; and it was the mild nine days’ wonder of Genevieve’s neighborhood when she and Joe walked out together.

Both were blessed with an avarice of speech, and because of it their courtship was a long one.  As he expressed himself in action, she expressed herself in repose and control, and by the love-light in her eyes—though this latter she would have suppressed in all maiden modesty had she been conscious of the speech her heart printed so plainly there.  “Dear” and “darling” were too terribly intimate for them to achieve quickly; and, unlike most mating couples, they did not overwork the love-words.  For a long time they were content to walk together in the evenings, or to sit side by side on a bench in the park, neither uttering a word for an hour at a time, merely gazing into each other’s eyes, too faintly luminous in the starshine to be a cause for self-consciousness and embarrassment.

He was as chivalrous and delicate in his attention as any knight to his lady.  When they walked along the street, he was careful to be on the outside,—somewhere he had heard that this was the proper thing to do,—and when a crossing to the opposite side of the street put him on the inside, he swiftly side-stepped behind her to gain the outside again.  He carried her parcels for her, and once, when rain threatened, her umbrella.  He had never heard of the custom of sending flowers to one’s lady-love, so he sent Genevieve fruit instead.  There was utility in fruit.  It was good to eat.  Flowers never entered his mind, until, one day, he noticed a pale rose in her hair.  It drew his gaze again and again.  It was her hair, therefore the presence of the flower interested him.  Again,