“Apartment in the locality we’ve picked out—life in the style the locality calls for—and wait for it all until I’m gray——” with a burst of tremendous energy. “Good heavens, darling, what’s the use? Why—if I could have you and a little home like that——”
He bit his lip hard. The maid-of-honour walked on, her head turned still farther away than before. They were nearing the station. Just ahead lay a turn in the road—the last turn. The rest of the party, with a shout back at this dilatory pair, disappeared around it. From the distance came the long, shrill whistle of the approaching train.
The maid-of-honour glanced behind: there was not a soul in sight; ahead: and saw nothing to alarm a girl with an impulse in her heart. At a point where great masses of reddening sumac hid a little dip in the road from everything earthly she stopped suddenly, and turning, put out both hands. She looked up into a face which warmed on the instant into a half-incredulous joy and said very gently: “You may.”
The sun had been gone only two hours, and the soft early autumn darkness had but lately settled down upon the silent little house, waiting alone for its owners to come back some October day, when a cart, driven slowly, rolled along the road. In front of the house it stopped.
“Where are we?” asked Juliet’s voice. “This is a private house. I thought we—Why, Tony—do you see?—We’ve come around in a circle instead of going on to that little inn you spoke of. This is—home!”
“Is it?” said Anthony’s voice in a tone of great surprise. “So it is!” He leaped out and came around to Juliet’s side. “What a fluke!” But the happy laugh in his voice betrayed him.
“Anthony Robeson,” cried Juliet softly, “you need not pretend to be surprised. You meant to do it.”
“Did I?” He reached out both arms to take her down. “Perhaps I did. Do you mind—Mrs. Robeson? Shall we go on?”
Juliet looked down at him. “No, I don’t think I mind,” she said.