Annie shook her head in slow reproof, her eyes softly shining in the shadows.
“Yes, there is too, Homer,” she insisted. “Please tell me what it is.”
“Why, I haven’t any right to growl,” he told her. “I didn’t mean you to see. Didn’t mean anyone to see.”
“I could see,” she insisted gently.
He and Will had already explained to her the significance of the death of Steve Randall, the salesman; it was not necessary for Homer to repeat these things. He simply said: “Will’s got that job.”
She did not speak for a moment, then asked softly: “Mr. Randall’s—job?”
“Yes. Charlie Hopkins told us to-night his father had decided.” He added with careful sportsmanship: “Of course Will deserves it. He’s a better man. But I sort of hoped I’d.... Oh, you know.”
“I know, Homer,” she agreed, in a voice that was scarce more than a whisper. And laid her hand, ever so lightly, upon the hand of Homer Dean.
Now Annie Cool had kissed and been kissed many a time, by Will, and by Homer, and by others, in the cheerful frolicking of youth; and she had held hands on hay rides, or beneath the table at supper parties, or even on more public occasions. Thus that she should touch Homer’s hand had in itself no great significance.
But she had never touched his hand, nor he hers, before this night, save when there were others all about them; and always before this night there had been laughter back of the gesture. This night there was not laughter; there were tears.