“Good afternoon,” she said. “And thanks once more for a very pleasant picnic.”
“You are quite welcome, I'm sure. Thank you for your frank opinion of my—worthlessness. It was kind of you to express it.”
The sarcasm was not lost upon her.
“I meant it as a kindness,” she replied.
“Yes. And it was true enough, probably. Doubtless I shall derive great benefit from your—words of wisdom.”
Her patience, evidently, was exhausted. She turned away. “Oh, that,” she said, indifferently, “is your affair. I told you what I believed to be the truth, that was all. What you do is not likely to be of vast importance to me, one way or the other. Come, Don!”
Don cantered down the slope. I watched him and his rider disappear beyond the trees in the distance. Then I picked up my pail and other burdens and followed in their wake. The sun was behind a cloud. It had been a strange day with a miserable ending. I was furiously angry with her, but I was more angry with myself. For what she had told me WAS the truth, and I knew it.
I strode on, head down, through the village. People spoke to me, asking what luck I had had and where I had been, but I scarcely noticed them. As I reached the Corners and was passing the bank someone called my name. I glanced up and saw George Taylor descending the steps.
“Hold on, Ros,” he hailed. “Wait a minute. What's your rush? Hold on!”
I halted reluctantly.