"Well," he said, "I've been doing all the talking——"
Anthy's low laugh sounded clear in the night air.
"Your picture of a reconstructed country newspaper is irresistible!"
"It could be done!" said Nort. "It could be done right here in Hempfield. Brains and energy will count anywhere, Miss Doane. Why, we could make the Hempfield Star one of the most quoted journals in America—or in the world!"
They stood silent for a moment there at the gate. Nort was not looking at Anthy, or thought he was not, but long afterward he had only to close his eyes, and the whole scene came back to him: the dim old house rising among its trees, the wide sky and the stars overhead, and the slight figure of Anthy there in the gateway. And the very odour and feel of the night——
Anthy was turning to walk up the pathway.
"One week more," said Nort.
"One week more," responded Anthy.
Now there is nothing either mystical or poetical about any one of these three words-one—week—more—or about all of them together, and yet Nort once repeated them for me as though they had some peculiar or esoteric significance. They merely meant that there was another week before Ed Smith returned. A week is enough for youth!