Culver again under the tree. The conversation ran like this:
Mrytle, (looking very pretty indeed but very firm): Look here, I—I've decided not to marry you.
Mr. Culver (rousing suddenly and staring up at her): I beg your pardon!
Mrytle: I know now that I was making a terrible mistake. No matter how much I care for you, I cannot marry a slacker.
Mr. C. (furiously angry and glaring at her): You know better than that!
Mrytle: Not at all. Can you deny that you haven't registered yet?
Mr. C.: What's that got to do with it? I daresay I'm losing my mind. It wouldn't be much wonder if I have. When I think of the way I've suffered lately—look at me!
Mrytle (in a somewhat softened voice): Have you really suffered?
Mr. C.: I? Good Lord, Myrtle—why, I haven't slept for weeks. I
But here he stopped, with his eyes fixed on the roof overhead.
"Watch out!" he yelled. "Get back. Myrtle, she'll fall on you."
"Not at all," said Tish's calm voice from over head. There was a rasping sound, and then a
