Judith stepped beside him for some moments in mortified silence. Evidently he was green wood and could by none of her old methods be kindled. Then, their eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, they came out into a modified twilight in the clearing about the Bonbright house. “You better unlock the door and go in first,” suggested Judith, in a depressed tone.
“Why, I ain’t got the key,” Creed reminded her. “I left it with you—didn’t you bring it?”
They drew unconsciously close together in the dark with something of the guilty consternation of childish culprits. A mishap of the sort ripens an acquaintance swiftly.
“What a gump I was!” Judith breathed with sudden low laughter. He could see her eyes shining in the gloom, and the dim outline of her figure. “I knowed well an’ good you didn’t have the key—hit’s in the blue bowl on the fire-board at home.”
“I ought to have thought of it,” asserted Creed shouldering the blame. “And I’m sorry; I wanted to show you my mother’s picture.”
“An’ I’m sorry,” echoed Judith, remembering fleetingly the swept and garnished rooms, the wreath of red roses; “I had something to show you, too.”
Nothing was said of the dishes for the merrymakers at Judith’s house. Another interest was obtruding itself into the simple, practical expedition, crowding aside its original purpose. The girl looked around the dim, weed-grown garden, its bushes blots of deeper shadow upon the darkness, its blossoms vaguely conjectured by their odour.
“There used to be a bubby bush—a sweet-scented shrub—over in that corner,” Creed hesitated. “I’d like to get you some of the bubbies. My mother used to pick ’em and put ’em in the bureau drawers I remember, and they made everything smell nice.”
He had taken her hand and led her with him, advancing uncertainly toward the flowers. He felt her shiver, and halted instantly.
“Yo’ cold!” he said. “Let me take my coat off and put it around ye—I don’t need it. You got overheated playing back there, and now you’ll catch a cold.”