The man was a passably good-looking young fellow of a somewhat scholarly type, lean and tall, and wearing spectacles, but the girl was a marvel, a miracle of soft, rich colors and vigorous health. Her eyes were blue, her hair the shade of ripe wheat, her sunburned face beautifully flushed. She was strong, lithe, straight-limbed, and such a joy to see that Rose forgot all about oil stoves.
“Well, good-by, Margie!” said the young man in spectacles, in the most casual sort of tone.
“Good-by, Paul!” the girl rejoined, equally casual.
Their eyes met, and they both glanced hastily away. The girl essayed a smile.
“Well,” she said. “Good-by, Paul!”
“Good-by, Margie!” he repeated. “I—”
There was a long silence.
“I’ll have to go in,” said she. “It’s late. Good-by, Paul!”
She held out her hand, and he took it. They stood hand in hand, looking at each other. Suddenly she snatched away her hand.
“Good-by, Paul,” she cried, and ran off.