We furnished that double-fronted house from attic--it ran to an
attic--to cellar, and created a garden.

"Do you know Pampas Grass?" said Marion. "I love Pampas Grass... if
there is room."

"You shall have Pampas Grass," I declared. And there were moments as we
went in imagination about that house together, when my whole being cried
out to take her in my arms--now. But I refrained. On that aspect of life
I touched very lightly in that talk, very lightly because I had had
my lessons. She promised to marry me within two months' time. Shyly,
reluctantly, she named a day, and next afternoon, in heat and wrath,
we "broke it off" again for the last time. We split upon procedure.
I refused flatly to have a normal wedding with wedding cake, in white
favours, carriages and the rest of it. It dawned upon me suddenly in
conversation with her and her mother, that this was implied. I blurted
out my objection forthwith, and this time it wasn't any ordinary
difference of opinion; it was a "row." I don't remember a quarter of the
things we flung out in that dispute. I remember her mother reiterating
in tones of gentle remonstrance: "But, George dear, you must have
a cake--to send home." I think we all reiterated things. I seem to
remember a refrain of my own: "A marriage is too sacred a thing, too
private a thing, for this display. Her father came in and stood behind
me against the wall, and her aunt appeared beside the sideboard and
stood with arms, looking from speaker to speaker, a sternly gratified
prophetess. It didn't occur to me then! How painful it was to Marion for
these people to witness my rebellion.

"But, George," said her father, "what sort of marriage do you want? You