“Then she has not been busy? She has not wanted to see me?” said Tom. “I think I understand at last. I have been a fool not to before. You girls have broken it to me as well as you could. Much obliged, I am sure. Good night.”
“Won't you come in?” asked Imogen.
“We might have some music,” said Eliza.
“And there is an orange cake, and I will make coffee,” said Susan.
Annie reflected rapidly how she herself had made that orange cake, and what queer coffee Susan would be apt to concoct.
“No, thank you,” said Tom Reed, briskly. “I will drop in another evening. Think I must go home now. I have some important letters. Good night, all.”
Annie made a soft rush to the gate, crouching low that her sisters might not see her. They flocked into the house with irascible murmurings, like scolding birds, while Annie stole across the grass, which had begun to glisten with silver wheels of dew. She held her skirts closely wrapped around her, and stepped through a gap in the shrubs beside the walk, then sped swiftly to the gate. She reached it just as Tom Reed was passing with a quick stride.
“Tom,” said Annie, and the young man stopped short.
He looked in her direction, but she stood close to a great snowball-bush, and her dress was green muslin, and he did not see her. Thinking that he had been mistaken, he started on, when she called again, and this time she stepped apart from the bush and her voice sounded clear as a flute.
“Tom,” she said. “Stop a minute, please.”