"Let's go back to the summer house," urged he.
"No. Come up here," she insisted. "Be careful. The windows above are open."
He climbed the rail noiselessly and made an impetuous move for her hand. She drew back. "No, Sam dear," she said. "I know it's foolish. But I've an instinct against it—and we mustn't."
She spoke so gently that he persisted and pleaded. It was some time before he realized how much firmness there was under her gentleness. She was so afraid of making him cross; yet he also saw that she would withstand at any cost. He placed himself beside her on the wicker lounge, sitting close, his cheek almost against hers, that they might hear each other without speaking above a whisper. After one of those silences which are the peculiar delight of lovers, she drew a long breath and said: "I've got to go away, Sam. I shan't see you again for a long time."
"They heard about this morning? They're sending you away?"
"No—I'm going. They feel that I'm a disgrace and a drag. So I can't stay."
"But—you've got to stay!" protested Sam. In wild alarm he suspected she was preparing to make him elope with her—and he did not know to what length of folly his infatuation might whirl him. "You've no place to go," he urged.
"I'll find a place," said she.
"You mustn't—you mustn't, Susie! Why, you're only seventeen—and have no experience."
"I'll get experience," said she. "Nothing could be so bad as staying here. Can't you see that?"