"Why, no," said he slowly.
"Didn't you promise 'Delia you'd go?"
"No, I guess not. I said mebbe I'd be round if I had time, but I ain't found the time. These 'taters have got to be dug."
The red had surged into Isabel's full cheeks. She looked an eloquent remonstrance.
"Oliver," she said impetuously, "'Delia's sittin' on the front steps, waitin' for you to come. She'll be terrible disappointed if you put her aside like this."
Oliver took off his hat and passed a hand over his forehead. She noticed, as she had a hundred times, how fine his hair was at the roots, and was angry again because he would not, with his exasperating ways, let any woman love him as she might. He seemed to have nothing to say, but she knew the picture of lone 'Delia sitting on the steps was far from moving him. It did cause him an honest trouble, for he was kind; but not for that would he postpone his work.
"Oliver," she continued, "did you ever know what 'twas that made me tell you we must break off bein'—engaged?"
He was looking at her earnestly. His own mind seemed returning to a past ache and loss.
"I understood," he said at length—"I understood 'twas because you kinder figured it out we shouldn't get along well."
She stood there, a frowning figure, her lips compressed, her eyes stormy. Then she turned to him, all frankness and candor.