her--with her innocence a white flower, her patriotism a red one. If
only he might wear that white and red above his heart.

As a matter of fact, Jean resented, sub-consciously, his air of
possession, the certainty with which he seemed to see the end of his
wooing.

"You can't escape me," he had told her.

"As if I were a rabbit," she had complained afterwards to her father.
"When I marry a man I don't want to be caught--I want to run to him,
with my arms wide open."

"Don't," her father advised; "not many men would be able to stand it.
Let them worship you, Jeanie, don't worship."

Jean stuck her nose in the air. "Falling in love doesn't come the way
you want it. You have to take it as the good Lord sends it."

"Who told you that?"

"Emily--"

"What does Emily know of love?"

He had laughed and patted her hand. He was cynical generally about
romance. He felt that his own perfect love affair with his wife had
been the exception. He looked upon Emily as a sentimental spinster who
knew practically nothing of men and women.