“Not exactly that. Most of them think you have done it—just as I did. You certainly ought to. I suppose I should be ashamed of myself, talking this way; but I’m not. I used to think David Collins was a pretty fair sort; but the way he has tormented you is enough—I can’t help hoping he’ll get his pay for it all, and I don’t doubt he will.”
Polly listened with mingled anger and sorrow, added to the wonder that she did not speak out in David’s defense. Was it true that David was—doing that? Was he? It was not like him—and yet—
Suddenly Polly came to herself with a start. What had John been saying? She had not heard. She had been up in the Maine woods with David.
“If you can give me one little hope,” he went on, “I will try to wait patiently until this affair with David is settled. If I have your permission to keep on loving you—as I must always love you whether you will or not—I can go away happier. Polly, may I carry that bit of hope with me?”
“Oh, no, no, John, you must not!” she cried hurriedly. “I shall never—marry! That I have decided. I expect to be a nurse. I enjoy taking care of people, especially children, and I think father and mother will like me to do that. The children here are so interesting. They make me forget—” Her voice became inaudible.
“It will take more than interesting children to make me forget!” exclaimed the young man. Then he—the self-contained John Eustis—did a surprising thing. He caught Polly’s hand and pressed it impetuously to his lips.
In vain she tried to pull away. Gripping the little hand with a force that hurt, he left fierce, passionate kisses upon fingers and palm.
When they drove into Overlook they were conversing in a friendly way, but with more than a touch of constraint, and the good-byes were as conventional as they were brief.