Was there snow enough in truth on the steps to be treacherous? Selina concluded that perhaps there was but that his solicitude about it was excessive.
He led her down the even snowier flagging to the gate. "This drift has piled up since I went in half an hour ago. I don't know that I'd have brought you out in it if I'd realized."
Outside the gate he took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Right about," encouragingly. "Only the length of the block and you're there."
Then the out-streaming path of light from the Harrisons' doorway was left behind, and the dusk and the silently descending snow shut them in disquietingly and together.
Or was it, rather than the storm and dusk, the care of her by Tuttle which brought this disquieting sense of nearness and intimacy?
"This way—the snow's deeper near the fence. And yet don't stumble over the broken pavements."
And because of this increasing sense of disquiet, she began to talk hurriedly with the gay volubility of embarrassment. "You were wondering about Aunt Juanita and her questions about women? Mrs. Harrison says so many bothering things about women herself. I never feel certain I know just what she means."
Tuttle dropped her arm—they had gone possibly twenty steps—placed himself on the other side of her, lifted that hand and put it on his arm.
"The wind's veered more to this side. I can protect you better here. I rather suspect Mrs. Bruce is a shrewd enough woman, and we know Mrs. Harrison is a charming one. But what do we care after all, you and I, about their meanings?"
Was there just emphasis enough about that "you and I" to render it disquieting, too? Selina clung to her point and talked more volubly.