"I've been calling on Mrs. Tenney," said Nan, "and I asked Mr. Tenney to walk home with me. Thank you, Mr. Tenney. Good night. Think it over, won't you?"
Tenney turned, without a word, and went back along the road, with his habitual look, Raven had time to note, in the one glance he cast after him, of being blown by a hurrying wind. Raven faced about with Nan and asked at once, in the excess of his curiosity:
"Now what are you up to, calling on the Tenneys?"
Nan answered seriously. There was trouble in her voice.
"Well, I got thinking about them so I knew I shouldn't go to sleep, and I just went up by, without any real plan, you know. The woman had such an effect on me. I couldn't keep away from her."
Raven was struck with the inevitableness of this. Yes, she had that effect. You couldn't keep away from her.
"I'd no idea of going in," said Nan. "And I did want a run. Isn't the air heady? But just as I got to the house, she opened the door. She was coming out, I suppose. She had the baby. The baby was all wrapped up. She wasn't, though. She had just an apron on her head. And when the door opened, I could hear him yelling inside. I don't know whether he was driving her out or whether she'd started to run for it."
"Well?" prompted Raven harshly. Why should she be so slow about it? "What then?"
"I went up the path," said Nan, in a half absent way, as if what she was telling seemed far less important than the perplexing issues it had bred in her. "I said good evening to her. I went by her: I think I did. I must have got into the kitchen first. And there he was. He's a striking fellow, isn't he, Rookie? Like a prophet out on the loose, foaming at the mouth and foretelling to beat the band. He'd got something in his hands. It was little and white; it might have been the baby's cap. He was tearing it to rags. You ought to have seen him at it."
"You shouldn't have gone in," said Raven angrily. "The fellow's dotty. Don't you know he is? Did he speak to you?"