“I don’t care,” calls back Lucy, half-way up the flight.
And so, much to the disgust of Hen, who had counted upon your society going as well as coming, you “saw her home” in the most exemplary fashion—you keeping to one edge of the walk, and she to the other, and between your parallel routes space for a coach and four.
“Edith Lucas is mad ’cause I said I’d go home with her,” vouchsafes Lucy.
“Pooh! We don’t mind, do we?” you affirm, employing a delightful plural.
“Uh-uh,” agrees Lucy.
Beatific silence thenceforth encompassed your route until the Rogers front gate was reached.
“Good-night!” piped Lucy, scampering for the door.
“Good-night!” cried you, running deliriously down the street.
And the next day all the boys in town pestered you with their teasing: “Aw, John! went home with a girl!” and you find “John Walker is Lucy Roger’s beau,” chalked upon horse-blocks and walks and gate-posts.