Northrup laughed.
“Well, something like that,” he admitted. “May I walk along with you, Mrs. Rivers? Unless I go around the lake, I must turn back.”
And so they walked on, Noreen darting here and there quite unlike her staid little self, and they talked of many things––neither could have told after just what they talked about. The conversation was like a stream carrying them along to a definite point ordained for them to reach, somewhere, some time, on beyond.
“How on earth could she manage to be what she is?” pondered Northrup. “She’s read and thought to some purpose.”
“What does he mean by being here?” pondered Mary-Clare. “This isn’t just a happening.”
But they chatted pleasantly while they pondered.
When they came near to the yellow house, Noreen, who was ahead, came running back. All the joyousness had fled from her face. She looked heavy-eyed and dull.
“She’s tired,” murmured Mary-Clare, but she knew that that was not what ailed Noreen.
And then she looked toward her house. Larry stood in the doorway, smoking and smiling.
“Will you come and meet my husband?” she asked of Northrup.