Stella flew to the door and opened it on her lover, standing still and calm, like a figure set there by destiny to conquer her.
"Jerry," she burst forth out of the nervous thrill her mother had awakened in her, "you're botherin' me 'most to death. It's awful not to ask you in when you come to the door, and you a neighbor so. But I can't. You know I can't. It ain't as if you'd come in the day-time. But Saturday night—it's just as if—why, you know what Saturday night is. It's just as if we were goin' together."
Jerry stood there immovable, looking at her. He had shaved and he wore the red tie she had given him. Perhaps it was not so much that she saw him clearly through the early dusk as that she knew from memory how kind his eyes were and what a healthy color flushed his face. It seemed to her at this moment as if Jerry was the nicest person in the world, if only he wouldn't plague her so. But he was speaking out of his persistent quiet.
"I might as well tell you, Stella, an' you might as well make up your mind to it. It ain't to-night only. I'm comin' here every Saturday night."
She was near crying with the vexation of it.
"But you can't, Jerry," she said. "I don't want you to."
"You used to want me to," said he composedly.
"Well, that was when we were—"
"When we were goin' together." He nodded in acceptance of the quibble. "Well, if you wanted me once, a girl like you, you'll want me ag'in. An' anyways, I'm comin'."
Stella felt a curious thrill of pride in him.