Danny said yes, and led Jim into the clearing and up to a pine stump, where everybody sat, quite alone, chin propped on hand. No singing, no book, and—or did Jimmy imagine it?—a spirit decidedly quenched. Her eyelids were red and her face was pale.
"So, dear lady, I have found you. But I was listening for the song."
"There is no song to-day." Agatha's manner resembled an Arctic breeze.
"May one ask why?"
"One can not always be singing."
"No? Why not? I could—if I could."
Agatha was obliged to relax a trifle at Jimmy's foolishness, but only to reveal, more and more distinctly, a wretchedness of spirit that was quite baffling. It was not feminine wretchedness waiting for a masculine comforter, either, as James observed with regret; it was a stoical spirit, braced to meet a blow—or to deal one.
Jimmy was not used to being snubbed, and instinctively prepared for vigorous protest. He began with a little preliminary diplomacy.
"You haven't inquired what I'm going to do with the remainder of my holiday," he remarked.
"I supposed you would return soon to Lynn. Shall we walk back to the house?"