“This seems a long way from that dinner at Redfield’s, doesn’t it?” he remarked, as she turned from spreading the blankets on the couch.
“It is another world,” she responded, and her face took on a musing gravity.
Then they faced each other in silence, each filled with the same delicious sense of weakness, of danger, reluctant to say good-night, longing for the closer touch which dawning love demanded, and yet—something in the girl defended her, defeated him.
“You must call me if I can be of any help,” he repeated, and his voice was tremulous with feeling.
“I will do so,” she answered.
Still they did not part. His voice was very tender as he said, “I don’t like to see you exposed to such experiences.”
“I was not afraid—only for you a little,” she answered.
“The Redfields like you. Eleanor told me she would gladly help you. Why do you stay here?”
“I cannot leave my mother.”
“I’m not so sure of your duty in that regard. She got on without you for ten years. You have a right to consider yourself. You don’t belong here.”