Azalea took a low mountain chair and brought it near, so that she could face him. That mysterious feeling which had been hanging over her all day, whispering to her that something strange was about to happen, deepened curiously. Little chills ran lightly over her frame and she had to close her hands to keep her fingers from twitching.
“It must seem particularly silly to you that a fellow can’t do a little job like the one I did yesterday without going to pieces over it,” Keefe began. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever been very strong. I have color in my face, and that rather fools people. It fools me too, and makes me think I’m of more account than I am.”
“It was a terribly hard piece of work you did yesterday,” replied Azalea softly. “But perfect rest will make you all right, Aunt Zillah thinks. If I were you, I wouldn’t talk, boy. Aunt Zillah says you’re not to move a finger, and I’m sure that means you’re not to move your tongue either.”
Keefe shook his head.
“Never mind what anybody wants, Azalea. I’ve something to tell you and I’m going to do it now.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t, Keefe, really—”
Keefe lifted a languid hand, but it had authority in it.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time,” he said. “You know, Zalie, if I wait—it may possibly be too late.”
“No, no, Keefe, I won’t have you—”