“It strikes me you’re in love.”
He laughed at the idea, saying, “No, but it is rotten to find that there isn’t a single thing you have to be proud of.”
“This is a new tune for you.”
He pulled the grass moodily.
“And when do you think of going?”
“Oh—I don’t know—I’ve said nothing to mother. Not yet,—at any rate not till spring.”
“Not till something has happened,” said I.
“What?” he asked.
“Something decisive.”
“I don’t know what can happen—unless the Squire turns us out.”