“Yes.” Sniff. “The chickens’ll be starving.” Sniff. “I’d better go home.”
“Oh, you must not go home yet. June, I love you so.”
“Do you?” Sniff.
“Yes, I . . .”
“But, John, I think you’d better go to London, after all. It’ll be better for you there. I was only crying because of everything. I’m better now . . .”
What did she mean? What was in her mind? What was this, what was this?
“. . . fond of me, and I must help Father with his book, his wonderful book which will come out next year, we’re hoping. An’ you’ll go to London and do whatever you’re going to do there, I know you will. I expect you will be a great man one day. There’s the chickens. I’ve got to feed them an’ look for eggs, too, for supper. Shall I walk you back or can you get home alone now? For I’ve got to hurry.”
“No, I can get back alone all right by the roads. But, June, don’t go like this. What does it mean,—I mean how do you . . .?”
“Oh, you go to London. Father an’ I’ve got the book to write. He’ll show you all what a mistake you made. So long, John.”
“Good-bye, Joan.”