“Oh, I didn’t mean it.” Tom’s voice was caressing now. His eyes blinked and he changed his big basket to the other arm in spite of Gloria’s blue gingham dress and her own armful of sweet-flag roots being on that side. There was plenty of room now, however, for she had edged off toward the stone wall.
The road turned at the creek—Tom would go one way and Gloria the other, but before they separated they had made up the momentary difference. Just as it began it ended. Neither boy nor girl was subject to any nonsensical apologies or explanations over such silly little trifles.
“If I were you, Tom, just the same, I’d tell my mother I had a spill and that your bike is broken. Then—”
“Oh, yes, I know, Gloria. That’s easy enough to say. But you don’t know my mother.”
“I do so.”
“I mean, like I know her.”
“Of course I don’t know her as well as you do.”
“Then you can’t know how she fusses. I don’t want her to know I had that spill, Gloria, and if you hear folks talking about it just hush them up. I didn’t get hurt—”
“You did, too, Tom Whitely!”
“Oh, that!” scoffed Tom. “I don’t call that getting hurt.”