Arthur Stringer

“ He thought of the tower, rising above his little windows by night, of the wide campus beneath him in the white moonlight, of the shadowy maples beyond the tennis courts, of the heavy smell of hyacinths in the little deanery garden. He would be sorry to lose them all; they had grown so much a part of his life. ”

“ The young professor's eyes, as he spoke, were on the shadowy gardens, on the sunlit orchard and the undulating meadowlands, fair and fresh in the morning sunlight.
“But it's the work you love!” cried the puzzled woman at his side. ”

“ I wash my hands of you! I'll never make you believe in witches and fairies, and the windflower at the end of the rainbow, and the eternal beauties of the Arcadian life, if you're going to poke over a coffeepot all morning. You're as bad as Dickie, who's still in bed, and won't turn out until half past ten at the earliest! And I've walked three miles and more!”
“Anne and I intend to walk six miles and more before luncheon!” declared Macraven, with vigor.
“Do we?” said Anne.
“We do!” repeated the young professor of anthropology, meeting her gaze determinedly. ”