“I like it.”
“I am afraid you will catch cold.”
“I don't catch cold at all easily.”
“The wind is very damp,” argued Horace, with increasing confidence. He grew very bold. He seized upon one of her little white hands. “I won't believe it unless I can feel for myself that your hands are not cold,” said he. He felt the little soft fingers curl around his hand with the involuntary, pristine force of a baby's. His heart beat tumultuously.
“Oh—” he began. Then he stopped suddenly as Rose snatched her hand away and again gazed at the moon.
“It is a beautiful night,” she remarked, and the harmless deceit of woman, which is her natural weapon, was in her voice and manner.
Horace was more obtuse. He remained leaning eagerly towards the girl. He extended his hand again, but she repeated, in her soft, deceitful voice, “Yes, a perfectly beautiful night.”
Then he observed Sylvia Whitman standing beside them. “It is a nice night enough,” said she, “but you'll both catch your deaths of cold at this open window. The wind is blowing right in on you.”
She made a motion to close it, stepping between Rose and Horace, but the young man sprang to his feet. “Let me close it, Mrs. Whitman,” said he, and did so.
“It ain't late enough in the season to set right beside an open window and let the wind blow in on you,” said Sylvia, severely. She drew up a rocking-chair and sat down. She formed the stern apex of a triangle of which Horace and Rose were the base. She leaned back and rocked.