“Do you think Lem ought to wait until fall to start schooling?”
“What do I know about it?” he asked. “It's nothing to me.”
There was an unpleasant pause. Rudeness, even when coming from a man as evidently out of sorts as Freeman was, kills lively spirits. Henrietta came to the rescue.
“Did you ever see a lovelier day?” she asked. “Just see the sun on that vase of syringas! This is the sort of day I wish I was a Maud Muller. Lem, it is a crime to be in school a day like this, isn't it?”
“Yes'm,” said Lem. “I guess so.”
“So we won't make you go,” she said gayly. “Lorna and I are poor slaves. We have to go whether we like it or not.”
She arose and went to the door, humming.
She went into the hall and stood a moment at the screen door, looking out, and then went out upon the porch and walked slowly down toward the gate, stopping to pick a dandelion. At the top of the terrace steps she stood, waiting. Freeman Todder, taking his hat and cane, followed her. To any one seeing them at the top of the steps they would have seemed to have met there by chance.
“Well?” Henrietta asked. There was no lightness, no affection in her voice; no anger either.
“It went against me last night. I lost the whole twenty. The damnedest luck, Et.”