He hesitated, and finally decided upon “Tom”; but she, like every one else, saw the inevitability of “Tommy.”
There was a long silence. Then out of the dark came her calm little voice.
“Tommy,” she said, “you’re a funny boy!”
“Am I?” he said, with an uneasy laugh.
The situation was quite out of hand now. He didn’t know what was expected of him as a man of the world. He did know, though, that he was failing.
“Tommy,” said she, again, “come and sit here, beside me.”
With a quite artificial alacrity he jumped up, went over to her, and sat down in the hammock, close to her. He called himself a fool, an imbecile, a contemptible ass.
“I ought to kiss her,” he said to himself, “or put my arm around her, or at least hold her hand!”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even talk to her. He wanted, above everything else in the world, to run away. He was not flattered or in any way stirred or excited—only miserably ill at ease and instinctively alarmed. He dared not move, even to turn his head.
At last Esther got up with a sigh.