“If I mean a good deal to you and Joey I sure ought to be satisfied. It oughtn’t to matter—really matter—if you smile different when you speak to her.”
I took her hand. I was moved. Again I marveled that Wanza had the power to shake me so. “You have your own place, child,” I said. And when she questioned, “But what is my place, Mr. Dale?” I asked myself what indeed was her place. “I shall tell you some time,” I answered, which was not at all the remark I desired to make, and I spoke in palpable confusion.
After a short interval she took her hand from mine, and gathered up the lines, not looking at me as she said: “Mr. Batterly is back in Roselake.”
I caught her by the shoulder. I drew her quickly to me till I could see her face in the moonlight.
“When did he come back?” I asked, thickly.
She tugged at my restraining hand and shrugged away from me. “He’s been back two weeks, I calculate—may be more.”
“Don’t speak to him, Wanza—don’t look at him!” I implored quickly.
She faced me proudly at this. “Do you think I would,” she cried scornfully, “except to answer him when he speaks to me on the road?”
“I did not know, Wanza,” I murmured humbly.
“Did not know! It’s little you know me any way, David Dale, I am thinking. If you know me so little as not to know that, why should I care indeed how you treat me, or what my place is with you? Why should I care? Sometimes I think, David Dale, I think that I hate you. I’m thinking it now. Yes, yes, yes!”