“Come on!” he said. “It’s late. Let’s go back!”
V
He sat at the open window of his room that night, oppressed by guilt and dread.
“I shouldn’t have kissed her,” he said to himself. “Now she’ll think I’m in love with her.”
He knew well enough that he was not. He disliked her—almost loathed her; she was so soft and clinging, so irresistible and so inferior. He didn’t want to see her again.
He hadn’t yet been able to devise a suitable attitude when he met her the next morning. Seeing her so perfectly unmoved helped him, and they sat down to breakfast in friendly accord.
“It’s another hot day,” she said. “Mommer thought maybe you’d enjoy a picnic.”
“A picnic—just you and me?” he asked suspiciously.
She nodded, and waited for his reply, watching his face with candid eyes. He grew red and hot.
“Very nice idea,” he said loftily.