He looked up, startled. His frown became a smile.
"My time's up?" he queried. "Why, I didn't know I'd been working five minutes!"
"Up? Long ago! Now, Allan, you just simply must leave that history and come out and see my roses, or--or--"
"No threats!" he implored with mock earnestness. "I'm coming, dearest. Just give me time--"
"Not another minute, do you hear?"
"--to put my work away, and I'm with you!"
He carefully arranged the pages of his manuscript in order, while she stood waiting at the window, daring not leave lest he plunge back again into his absorbing toil.
Into his desk-drawer he slid the precious record of the community's labor, growth, achievement, triumph. Then, with a boyish twinkle in his eyes, he left the library.
She turned, expecting him to meet her by the broad piazza; but all at once he stole quietly round the other corner of the bungalow, his footsteps noiseless in the thick grass.
Suddenly he seized her, unsuspecting, in his arms.
"My prisoner!" he laughed. "Roses? Here's the most beautiful one in our whole garden!"
"Where?" she asked, not understanding.
"This red one, here!"
And full upon the mouth he kissed her in the leaf-shaded sunshine of that wondrous summer day.