She sat there, and he stood opposite her, leaning against the railing, both of them silently not liking each other. Presently the silence became unbearable.
“The spring has come early this year,” observed Miss Selby.
Mr. Anderson, the city dweller, knew precious little about what was expected of spring, but he was determined to say something, anything.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They were selling violets in the streets yesterday.”
Miss Selby looked at him with a sort of horror. Was that his idea of spring—violets being sold on street corners?
“But that doesn’t mean anything!” she cried. “They were probably hothouse violets, anyway. You can’t possibly see the real spring unless you go in the woods.”
She needn’t think she owned the spring. Every year of his life he had spent several weeks in the country at various hotels. He had seen any number of woods, had walked in them, and admired them, too, with moderation, however.
“Yes, I know,” he admitted. “Last June I motored up through Connecticut—”
“Oh, but that’s different!” she explained. “Motoring—that’s not the same thing at all! There’s a little wood near here—I go there almost every Sunday—I wish you could see it!”
“I’d like to,” he replied, without realizing the step implied.