“Yes,” he said finally, “I was going down to the wedding. Several from the ranch are. Fanny May’s marrying our assistant manager, you know, and she’s the manager’s niece. Nice girl. But you and I aren’t interested—are we?”
All Hilda’s forces deserted in a body to the enemy. The overwhelming sweetness of the moment frightened her into hasty speech.
“Oh, Pearse,” she whispered, “I—do you know why I came over here? Uncle Hank didn’t really want me to. I could see that. But he let me choose—and I chose to come—because you were here. I did. It’s the truth.”
People at the tub, getting lemonade. Too close to risk even another whispered word. Pearse reached down into the shadows and caught a slim hand that swung over the porch edge. The last time he had held it, it was a brown little fist, the palm showing small round callouses from ungloved use. Now three months at the Alamositas, under the tuition of a lady who believed in, and honored, the tradition of lily-white feminine fingers, had brought it into its own. The Rensselaer hand, famous through generations for its pink palm, tapering fingers and filbert nails, lay in Pearse’s and when those slim fingers curled up and clasped his own, they took a grasp upon his heartstrings.
“It’s awkward—your being with those people,” he said, when they again had a chance not to be overheard. “But we’ll manage.”
“You don’t seem to find Fayte much in your way.” Hilda laughed a little, because she was so happy.
“Not much.” Pearse’s tone was fairly preoccupied.
“I really must give him the next dance,” Hilda sighed. “But I don’t want to ride home with him—and I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Of course you won’t. I’ll see that you don’t. Here he comes now. Well—the dance—if you must.” And he helped her up.
From the doorway behind them Fayte’s voice, raised in a curious jeering anger, answered some one there: