And do look at this ceiling. It is simple, but divinely clean and
appropriate."
"It is well enough," said I, coldly.
After indulging in various other raptures, to which I seemed to turn a
deaf ear, and examining everything to her heart's discontent, Josephine
moved toward the front door with a sigh. Then it was that I remarked:
"So the house suits you, my dear?"
"It is ideal," she murmured, "simply ideal."
"There are things about it which I don't fancy altogether," said I.
"Oh, Fred, if we only had a house like it, I should be perfectly
satisfied."
"Should you? It is yours," I answered.
"Don't be unkind, Fred."
"It is yours," I repeated, a little more explicitly.
Josephine devoured me with inquiring eyes. As she gazed, the
expression of my countenance brought the blood to her cheeks and she
cried with the plaintiveness of a wounded animal, "What do you mean,
dear? It is cruel of you to make sport of me."
"I am not making sport of you, Josephine. The house is yours--ours. I
bought it yesterday. Here is the deed, if you mistrust me," I
continued, solemnly drawing from my pocket the document in question.
Josephine took it like one dazed. She looked from me to it and back
again from it to me, then with a joyous laugh she exclaimed, "Really?
It is really true? Oh, Fred, you are an angel!"
"No, my dear," I answered, as she flung her arms about my neck--for she
does so still once in a while--"I am merely a philosopher who has
learned to recognize that what must be must be.
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