“That old story—was it so very dreadful?”
“Yes.” In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance.
She dragged her hands away. “I didn't think in these days boys were tied to their mothers' apron-strings.”
Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck.
“Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!” Swiftly she came close to him. “Jon, dear; I didn't mean it.”
“All right.”
She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on them; the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. But, in a sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his shoulder and drew away.
“Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never thought you'd have given me up.”
“I haven't,” cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. “I can't. I'll try again.”
Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. “Jon—I love you! Don't give me up! If you do, I don't know what—I feel so desperate. What does it matter—all that past-compared with this?”