"Don't - do that," I said unsteadily. "You - you know what I want to do when you whistle!"
She glanced up at me, and she did not stop. She did not stop! She went on whistling softly, a bit tremulously. And straightway I forgot the street, the chance of passers-by, the voices in the house behind us. "The world doesn't hold any one but you," I said reverently. "It is our world, sweetheart. I love you."
And I kissed her.
A boy was whistling on the pavement below. I let her go reluctantly and sat back where I could see her.
"I haven't done this the way I intended to at all," I confessed. "In books they get things all settled, and then kiss the lady."
"Settled?" she inquired.
"Oh, about getting married and that sort of thing," I explained with elaborate carelessness. "We - we could go down to Bermuda - or - or Jamaica, say in December."
She drew her hand away and faced me squarely.
"I believe you are afraid!" she declared. "I refuse to marry you unless you propose properly. Everybody does it. And it is a woman's privilege: she wants to have that to look back to."
"Very well," I consented with an exaggerated sigh. "If you will promise not to think I look like an idiot, I shall do it, knee and all."
I had to pass her to close the door behind us, but when I kissed her again she protested that we were not really engaged.
I turned to look down at her. "It is a terrible thing," I said exultantly, "to love a girl the way I love you, and to have only one arm!" Then I closed the door.
>From across the street there came a sharp crescendo whistle, and a vaguely familiar figure separated itself from the perk railing.
"Say," he called, in a hoarse whisper, "shall I throw the key down the elevator shaft?"