He made no reply: as the veteran observer of a day, he had somewhat outgrown the trumpet-vine arbour and the ruby-throat.
He lingered close to the fence. Jenny lingered. He moved off, disappointed but devoid of speech.
"Come back!" Jenny whispered, with reproach and vexation.
It was the first invitation. It was the first acceptance of an invitation. There would have been a second acceptance but the invitation was not there to accept.
When Webster turned in at his home gate, everything was just as he had foreseen: his father sat on one side of the porch, smoking the one daily cigar; his mother faced him from the opposite side, slowly rocking. Elinor crouched on the top step between them: he would have to walk around her or over her.
His father laughed heartily as he sauntered up.
"Well, my son, where is your game bag? What have you brought us for breakfast?"
Webster looked crestfallen: he returned empty-handed but not empty-minded: he had had a great rich day; they thought it an idle wasted one.