"That's all very well, you know, but I'm not a boy--not all the time. I
love you awfully, Rose, in the real way, the bang-up old style, Tristan
and all that, you know. I'm going to keep on and you'll have to listen."
"Shall I, Peter?" She was still smiling wistfully. Love, sweet, clean,
young love looked very beautiful to her. She wished she could see it
crowning some head, not hers, some girl quite worthy of him. "Well, not
to-day."
"No, maybe not to-day," Peter agreed obstinately, "but other days, all
the days. I can't give up the most beautiful thing there is, and you're
that. You're simply the most beautiful there is."
"There's grannie coming out on the veranda." Then she added bitterly, "I
wonder if she will think I am the most beautiful thing there is!"