“Oh, I scared you,” he said confusedly. “Don’t be scared; it’s just me. I didn’t go to frighten you.”
Julie looked up at him. “You?” she cried uncertainly. “Oh, it’s you!”
They stared at each other a moment, and then she turned back into her sitting-room. “Well,” she said, relieved, “I’m glad it’s you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to think.”
He came down the stairs, still apologizing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t go to frighten you. I was upstairs all alone—my wife’s gone to the show with Mis’ Johnson—and I got to wondering where that door went to, an’ then, just out of curiosity, I hunted round till I found a closet-key that fitted it. But I’m mighty sorry I give you a start.”
He had come into the little sitting-room now and was leaning over the back of the red-plush rocker, looking down at her. She had returned to her knitting under the light. “Oh, it’s all right; it isn’t anything. I just get scared so easy,” she told him, still with a little tremor in her voice.
“Yes,” he said, “I know. Some of us do.”
He still lingered, leaning on his arms over the back of the chair and watching her knit.
“Making a sweater?” he asked.
“Yes, for the Red Cross.” She spread it out for him to see.
“Well, the feller that gets it’ll be lucky,” he said. Still he did not go; and in a moment he spoke again, feeling his way uncertainly. “Speaking about being scared—I mean, you said you got scared easy?”