“Mignonne, do you love me?” he asked.
“It is certain.”
“Very much?”
“I cannot say how much.”
“America is not far,” he said, with some idiotic intention to comfort her. “The ocean can be crossed in a week.”
“That is true,” she said.
Her head was against his breast, her eyes staring into her lap. Ken looked straight before him, thinking, thinking. His mind was very clear, as if lighted by that painful white light which seemed to pour in upon his consciousness in moments of mental stress. It seemed to him as if his eyes could pierce the walls if he willed it, as if his memory could show him every minute incident in his whole life, as if he could see and understand everything—everything. He drew her to him fiercely, but even as he was sensing the softness of her slender body against his side he was seeing the vestibule of the Presbyterian church, he was watching it function. The individuals stood before him as if alive, every well-known feature distinct. It was photographic. He could see changes of expression, hear whispers, see cautious hands placed before gossiping lips ... and he could see himself passing through that little group with Andree on his arm!...
He could see his own home—his return to it. He could see his mother and feel the hostility that sprang to life the instant her eyes rested on Andree. He could read his mother’s thoughts ... and his father’s. There was the one bright spot. He could see his father kissing Andree diffidently and patting her hand and telling her how glad he was to see her and asking how his son had ever managed to capture such a pretty girl.... There would be no doubt of her welcome at his father’s hands.... But his mother—that cold hostility, that hard-eyed suspicion!... And then, when she had him alone, the catechism he would undergo, and the resentment and jealousy she would exhibit....
He could see his friends and the neighbors of his childhood with their crass curiosity and their hints and whispers.... He knew their every thought ... could see their eyes fixed on Andree speculatively ... some of them hopefully!
It was that he would have to take her, too.... And then, if the story should come out!... But that would be little worse.... Perhaps he exaggerated, perhaps he saw his old friends and acquaintances in characters which were not truly theirs. There might have been more charity among them than he perceived, more kindness and less narrowness and insularity.... But he did not see them except as he feared they might be.