Routt did most of the talking, on that homeward walk. Now and then Agnes seemed to protest, weakly, at something he was urging her to do. One near enough might have heard him speak of Wint. But there was no one near.
When they reached her home, there was a light in the sitting-room window. That meant Amos was there; and Routt said he would not go in. “But you’ll remember, won’t you, Agnes,” he asked, “if you want to do something for me?”
She said softly: “I do want to do anything for you.”
He laughed at her gently. “How about him?”
“I hate him,” she said, with a sudden intensity that was not pretty to see. “I hate him. Hate him, I say.”
“What’s he ever done to you?” Routt teased; and she said:
“Nothing,” as though that one word were an accusation.
Routt put his arm around her; and she clung to him with a swift, terrified sort of passion, as though afraid to let him go. It seemed to embarrass him; he freed himself a little roughly.
He left her standing there when he hurried away.