"No," said she, "I suppose not. Aunt Celia spoke of it yesterday. She
told me the reason."

"What is Aunt Celia's most excellent theory?"

"She said I'm not so likely as I used to be."

"No," said Jerome, not answering her smile in the community of mirth
they always had over Aunt Celia's simple speech. He rolled over on the
grass and began to make a dandelion curl. "No, that's not it. You're a
good deal likelier than you used to be. You're all possibilities now. I
could make a Madonna out of you, quick as a wink. No, it's because I've
decided to paint Marshby instead."

Mary's hands stilled themselves, and she looked at him anxiously. "Why
are you doing that?" she asked.

"Don't you want the picture?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Give it to you, I guess. For a wedding-present, Mary."

"You mustn't say those things," said Mary, gravely. She went on working,
but her face was serious.

"It's queer, isn't it," remarked Wilmer, after a pause, "this notion
you've got that Marshby's the only one that could possibly do? I began
asking you first."