"We're not married."

"No; but we're going to be, let me remind you. We are to--to announce it
to-morrow night, are we not? It has come to that, you see." He did not
look very cheerful, nor did she.

"Yes, I suppose it's imperative. That is why aunt is giving her
reception,--just to tell everybody we're engaged."

"And then everybody will shake hands with us and say,
'Congratulations,' 'How lovely,' 'So surprised,' 'Howdy do,' and so
forth, and we say 'Thanks,' 'How good of you,' and more so forth. It
will be great!" Another silence and inspection of the fire, he taking an
altered aim at the black chunk. "Say!" he exclaimed, "wouldn't it do
just as well if I didn't put in an appearance to-morrow night? Your aunt
can announce the thing, as agreed, and you can tell 'em that I have a
sick uncle in Indianapolis, or have had my leg broken, or something like
that. Now, there's a good girl."

"No," she said. "We fell in love because we couldn't help it, and this
is the penalty--an announcement party."

"I'll never quite understand why _you_ fell," said he dubiously.

"I think we were both too young to know," she responded. "It seems to me
that we've been in love ever since we were babies."

"And it never hurts a baby to fall, you know," said he, with fine logic.
"Of course it may cripple 'em permanently, but they don't know how it