As abruptly as Phœbe had invited everyone to stay and sup with her, she invited everyone to leave. She wished to be alone, she said, to gather her scattered wits. Walter was expressly included in the notice of eviction, but he stubbornly remained behind.
Phœbe affected not to observe him as she cleared up briskly, humming as she went in and out doors, as she brushed crumbs, or moved chairs and benches about. Walter watched her hungrily, but his bravado was gone; he glanced at her now and then almost timidly, fearing, somehow, her very physical strength and the atmosphere she carried of confidence, determination, will—qualities he vaguely envied in her.
“Well, Walter,” she turned to him at length, as if at last she had gathered those scattered wits and had them concentrated on a thing to do. “Well, Walter, we have a few matters to settle, haven’t we?”
Walter tried to answer, but speech was not quite possible for him. He was keen enough to sense disaster in her tone, and knew not how to meet it with words.
“Did I ever say I would marry you?” she went at him with brisk directness.
“Yes,” he answered doggedly.
“Think, boy,” swiftly she softened her tone. “Wasn’t it you who were always at me, and didn’t I always tell you that I wouldn’t even talk about it? Boy! Boy!” She came near him and mothered him with her smile. “Wasn’t it always you? Always just you?”
“Yes,” he managed huskily.
“I’m six years older than you——” she began, but he interrupted fiercely.
“That makes no difference!” he cried. “No difference at all!”