Well, perhaps he was not impatient, but at least he was waiting.

And Brian had found in Joan's face the vigor of sweetness, not the kind that cloys.

Kenny liked the words.
It was inevitable, with songs for everything, that he would have songs, like the tenderer tones of his voice, that he kept for Joan alone, songs that came softly to his lips when Nature stirred his fancy and Joan was at his side in an old-time gown.
A lone pine, a wild geranium, a lark or Joan's garden where the heliotrope grew; they were sparks to a fire of inspiration that came forth in song.
There was one song he sang most often.
"What is it, Kenny ?" Joan asked one sunset when Kenny on the farm porch was finding the subtleties of color for her in the darkening valley below them and the western sky above the hills.
"What's what, Arbutus, dear ?" he asked with guile.
The "dear" didn't bother her.

It was frequently "Hannah, dear!" and "Hetty, dear!" and Hughie was often "Hughie, darlin'." "Why," asked Joan, "do you call me Arbutus ?" "Because you're like one," he said gently.
"And what was the song ?" "'My Love's an Arbutus,'" said Kenny demurely.

He knew at once that he must not step so far ahead again.