She did not reply. He followed her out upon the porch and down the steps. No word passed between them until they had turned the bend in the drive and were outside the radius of light shed from the windows. He was the first to speak.
“See here, Jane,” he blurted out, “I’m—I’m terribly troubled and upset.” That was as far as he got, speech seeming to fail him.
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Is it about—about the detective, Oliver?” she asked tremulously.
“No,” he answered, almost roughly. “It’s about you, Jane. You’ve just got to answer me. Are you going to be married?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear the monosyllable.
They walked on in silence for twenty paces or more, turning down the path that led to the swamp road.
“I—I was afraid so,” he muttered. Then fiercely: “Who are you going to marry?”
She sighed. “I am going to marry the first man who asks me,” she replied, and, having cast the die, was instantly mistress of herself. “Have you any objections?” she asked, almost mockingly.
If he heard the question he paid no heed to it. She felt the muscles of his strong forearm grow taut, and she heard the quick intake of his breath. She waited. She began to hum a vagrant little air. It seemed an age to her before he spoke.