She said: “You didn’t lie, Wint. Anyway, you didn’t lie. There, dry that plate. So....”
He smiled a little whimsically. After all, he had lied. But they did not care whether it was true or false; these two. He was their son. The thought was glorious. He nursed it, treasured it.
When the work was done, and the dishes were being put away, they heard a step on the porch outside the kitchen. They both looked that way; and through the window saw Hetty. She passed the window, knocked on the door.
Wint looked toward his mother; and he saw that she was white as death. But even while he looked at her, she touched her mouth with her hand, and steadied herself, and went to the door and opened. “Hetty!” she said pleasantly, gently. “Hetty! Well, come in.”
The girl came into the kitchen. She was pale, but she seemed very sure of herself. She looked from Mrs. Chase to Wint. “I want to talk to Wint,” she said gently.
Mrs. Chase nodded. “You wait here.” She went quickly out into the dining room. They heard her speak to her husband. She was back, almost at once. “Go into the sitting room,” she said. “There’s no one there.”
Hetty went toward the door; but Wint at first did not stir. He was curiously ashamed to face Hetty. She stopped in the doorway, and looked back at him; and he pulled himself together, and untied his apron and followed her. In the sitting room, she sat down on the couch, and Wint sat by the table. She looked at him steadily, smiled a little.
He said: “Well, Hetty.”
She laughed at him in a tender way. “Oh, you Wint!” she exclaimed, in a fashion that reminded him of the old, careless Hetty. He shifted uneasily. He felt as though he were guilty toward her. But there was no accusation in her voice. She shook a forefinger at him. “What got into you?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell them to go to the devil?”
There was no way to put it into words. He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s all right.”