A certain burden of work shut down on him that day and the next, so that he forgot her in his affairs. He saw her every day, of course; but they were never alone together. His mother was always about. And there were other matters on Wint’s mind. He was glad to be able to forget her. Wint, like most men, was willing to forget a perplexity if forgetting were possible. And Hetty kept out of his way, and seemed to resent his interest.
He met Agnes on the street one morning, and she stopped him and talked with him. She was very gay and vivacious about it, touching his arm in a friendly way now and then to emphasize some meaningless word. Her hand was on his arm thus when he saw Joan coming, a little way off. He did not know that Agnes had seen her some time before, without seeming to do so. Agnes discovered Joan now with a start of surprise, and she took her hand off Wint’s arm in a quick, furtive way, as though she did not want Joan to see. Yet Joan must have seen. Wint was uncomfortably conscious that he had been put in an awkward light; but he supposed the whole thing was chance. Nothing more.
Agnes exclaimed: “Why, Joan, we didn’t see you coming.” Her words conveyed, subtly enough, the impression that if they had seen Joan coming, matters would have been different; and Wint scowled, and looked at Joan, and wondered if she was going to be so foolish as to mind. Then Agnes turned to him and said:
“Run along, Wint, I’ve something to say to Joan.” And he looked at Joan, and thought there was pique in her eyes; and he went away in such a mood of sullen resentment as had not possessed him for months. It stayed with him all that day: he reverted into the prototype of the old, sulky, stubborn Wint who had made all the trouble.
Agnes and Joan walked uptown together, and Agnes chattered gayly enough. Agnes had always a ready tongue, while Joan was of a more silent habit. Agnes said Wint had come down to see her, a few days before.
“That is, of course,” she explained, “he pretended he came to see dad. But he telephoned, and I told him dad wasn’t at home, but he came anyway. We sat on the porch and drank lemonade. That night the moon was full. Wasn’t it the most beautiful night, Joan? I think Wint’s a peach. I always did. I never could see why you and he quarreled. Seems to me you were awfully foolish. I’ll never have a fuss with him, I can tell you.”
There was too much sincerity in Joan for this sort of thing; she was almost helpless in Agnes’s hands. That is, she did not know how to counter the other girl’s shafts. She did say: “Wint and I haven’t really quarreled. We’re very good friends.”
Agnes nodded wisely, and said: “Oh, I know.” She looked up at Joan. “Was it about that Hetty Morfee, Joan? I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help wondering. I shouldn’t think you’d mind that. Men are that way. I know it doesn’t make a bit of difference to me. Not if—Well, I sha’n’t quarrel with Wint over Hetty, I can tell you.”
Joan had turned white. She could not help it; and Agnes saw, and added cheerfully: