“Oh-h!” breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket, her small face white and hard.
“Wait!” said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard, too. “You are right to go—entirely, absolutely right—but I am going to beg you to stay. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me; however vile it is, it’s less than the truth——”
“I have heard nothing of you,” said Daphne, holding her gold-wreathed head high, “but five years ago I was not allowed to come to Green Gardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was told that it was not a name to pass decent lips.”
Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes, and died.
“I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child,” he said. “They were quite right—and you, too. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” replied Daphne clearly. She started down the path, but at its bend she turned to look back—because she was seventeen, and it was June, and she remembered his laughter. He was standing quite still by the golden straw beehive, but he had thrown one arm across his eyes, as though to shut out some intolerable sight. And then, with a soft little rush, she was standing beside him.
“How—how do we get the cushions?” she demanded breathlessly.
Stephen Fane dropped his arm, and Daphne drew back a little at the sudden blaze of wonder in his face.
“Oh,” he whispered voicelessly. “Oh, you Loveliness!” He took a step toward her, and then stood still, clinching his brown hands. Then he thrust them deep in his pockets, standing very straight. “I do think,” he said carefully, “I do think you had better go. The fact that I have tried to make you stay simply proves the particular type of rotter that I am. Good-bye—I’ll never forget that you came back.”
“I am not going,” said Daphne sternly. “Not if you beg me. Because you need me. And no matter how many wicked things you have done, there can’t be anything as wicked as going away when someone needs you. How do we get the cushions?”