He drove there and back in his own buggy, and when he
reached the top overlooking the valley, with his bride, he stopped his
horse, and pointed with his whip. 'There,' he said, 'as far as the sky
is blue, it's all ours!' I thought that was fine."
"Fine?" I couldn't help bursting out; "it's a stroke of poetry."
Minver cut in: "The thrifty Acton making a note of it for future use in
literature."
"Eh!" Newton queried. "Oh! I don't mind. You're welcome to it, Mr.
Acton. It's a pity somebody shouldn't use it, and of course _I_ can't."
"Acton will send you a copy with the usual forty-per-cent. discount and
ten off for cash," the painter said.
They had their little laugh at my expense, and then Newton took up his
tale again. "Well, as I was saying--By the way, what _was_ I saying?"
The story-loving Rulledge remembered. "You went out with your wife and
children for Easter eggs."
"Oh yes. Thank you. Well, of course, in a town geographically American,
the shops were all shut on Sunday, and we couldn't buy even an Easter
egg on Easter Sunday. But one of the stores had the shade of its
show-window up, and the children simply glued themselves to it in such a
fascination that we could hardly unstick them.
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