Then she thought that she understood.
"He's going home in a few days, for the Christmas holidays," she stated. "Possibly then Ruth will—I'm planning for us all to be at uncle's, you with us."
"Gretzinger wasn't in my mind."
"You said 'too late'," she pursued. "Naturally I supposed your reference to be of them."
The gravity of his face deepened.
"I was thinking of myself," said he, turning his eyes upon her. "If we're not married soon, very soon, it will be too late. I mean that it would be a mockery. For me, at any rate. One may wish to go one way, and be swept another, especially when the mooring line is slack." His breast rose and fell at a quick, agitated breath. "But promise me that you'll not speak of this to Ruth."
"The very thing to bring her round, perhaps."
"More likely to fill her with despair."
This was something Imogene could not grasp. It was so inexplicable, so extravagant, so perverse, that her cheeks grew hot.
"I can't follow you at all," she cried, indignantly. "Ruth alarmed, jealous, in doubt—yes, I can credit her with any one of those feelings. But despair! She lays her plans too far ahead to be led into despair."