In the lee of a huge gray bowlder on the summit of Mount Tom sat
Philip Lambert and Carlotta Cressy. Below them stretched the wide
sweep of the river valley, amethyst and topaz and emerald, rich with
lush June verdure, soft shadowed, tranquil, in the late afternoon
sunshine. They had been silent for a little time but suddenly Carlotta
broke the silence.

"Phil, do you know why I brought you up here?" she asked. As she spoke
she drew a little closer to him and her hand touched his as softly as a
drifting feather or a blown cherry blossom might have touched it.

He turned to look at her. She was all in white like a lily, and otherwise
carried out the lily tradition of belonging obviously to the
non-toiling-and-spinning species, justifying the arrangement by looking
seraphically lovely in the fruits of the loom and labor of the rest of
the world. And after all, sheer loveliness is an end in itself. Nobody
expects a flower to give account of itself and flower-like Carlotta was
very, very lovely as she leaned against the granite rock with the valley
at her feet. So Phil Lambert's eyes told her eloquently. The valley was
not the only thing at Carlotta's feet.

"I labored under the impression that I did the bringing up myself," he
remarked, his hand closing over hers. "However, the point is immaterial.
You are here and I am here. Is there a cosmic reason?"

"There is." Carlotta's voice was dreamy. She watched a cloud shadow
creep over the green-plumed mountain opposite. "I brought you up here so
that you could propose to me suitably and without interruption."