But O'Donnell was certainly in a romantic mood today. He wouldn't let her admission stand. "Yes, you are," he began, with an odd impulsiveness, adding in a quieter though quite as fervent tone: "—a kind of poet...."
They eyed each other steadily a moment, as they had done once or twice before, that day. It was surely another O'Donnell than the O'Donnell of long ago—the O'Donnell, for instance, who had eased up at the finish and let her win the race. Was she, also, in a way, another Marjory? A Marjory, after all, rather less insistent upon, or who had grown just a tiny bit weary of, doing things simply to be independent—simply for the joy of doing them gloriously and daringly alone?
When the gentlemen had repaired to the porch to smoke and to discuss, as is the custom at such times, matters too deep to be grasped by the feminine intellect, Miss Whitcom succeeded in confronting Louise.
"Now," she said, with a warm, inviting firmness which brought a flash of tears to the girl's eyes.
She laid an arm around Louise's shoulders, and they stood thus together a few moments in the middle of the cottage living room. Could the Rev. Needham have looked in upon this affecting picture, and could those small eager ears of his have partaken of the subsequent talk which passed between them, the cigar of confidence and authority would have dropped from his fingers, its brave spark dimmed forever. Yes, he would have forgotten completely the brilliant bow which had seemed to smooth away all of life's snarls by giving him, marvellously, in an instant, a positive, almost Nietzschean philosophy. But for the present he was safe.
"How could things have gone so far without your realizing?"
"I don't know."
"But you must know how you feel toward him!" Louise shook her head miserably. "I thought I cared.... Perhaps I still do."
"But aren't you sure?"
"I—I don't believe I know. I don't seem sure of anything."