"Ianthe and me. She likes you."
"She likes me! What do you say about me—in bed?"
He hoped Ianthe had not been indiscreet, but Kate only said: "She doesn't like you as I do—not like this."
Soon they began to walk back towards the town. He smiled once when, as their footsteps clattered irregularly upon the hard clean road, she skipped to adjust the fall of her steps to his.
"Do not come any further," she begged, as they neared the street lamps. "It doesn't matter, not at all, what I've said to you. It will be all right. I shall see you again."
Once more she put her arms around his neck, murmuring "Good-night, good-night, good-night."
He watched her go quietly away. When he turned homeward his mind was full of thoughts that were only dubiously pleasant. It was all right, surprisingly sweet, but it left him uneasy. He managed to light a cigarette, but the wind blew smoke into his eyes, tore the charred end into fiery rags, and tossed the sparkles across his shoulder. If it had only been Julia Tern!—or even Ianthe!—he would have been wholly happy. Kate was good-looking, but these quietly passionate advances disturbed him. Why had he been so responsive to her? He excused himself, it was quite simple; you could not let a woman down, a loving woman like that, not at once, a man should be kind. But what did she mean when she spoke of always falling in love with men who did not like her?
He tossed the cigarette away and turned up the collar of his coat, for the faintest fall of warm rain blew against his face like a soft beautiful net. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked sharply and forgettingly home.