"Do stay; I'll take you home, Miss Celia," said Jack, as Rosalind bestowed marshmallows on the grinning Bob.
Celia hesitated, then turned, as if about to dismiss her escort, when Allan Whittredge stepped into the circle and cast an armful of wood on the fire. Celia retreated into the shadow. "I must go, dear," she whispered to Belle's urging.
A chorus of protest followed her as she hurried up the bank. She had hardly reached the road when she heard her name spoken quietly, and turning, she faced Allan Whittredge in the moonlight.
There was some hesitation in his manner as he said, "I can understand your wish to avoid me, and yet I am anxious to have a few moments' talk with you, now or at any time that may suit you." As he spoke, a sense of the absurdity of this formality between old playmates swept over him, almost bringing a smile to his lips.
Celia spoke gently. "I think not. I mean I can imagine no reason for it—no good it could do."
"But you can't judge of that until you know what I have to say. Something I did not understand has recently been made clear to me and—it is of that I wish to speak."
"If it has anything to do with the—the difference between your family and mine, it is needless—useless. I cannot listen, I can only try to forget." On the last word Celia's voice broke a little.
Allan took a step forward; "I do not think you have a right to refuse. You should grant me the privilege of defending myself against—"
Celia interposed, "I have not accused you, Mr. Whittredge; there is no occasion for defence, I must say good night."
Nothing could have been more final than her manner as she moved away toward Bob, who waited at a discreet distance. There was no uncertainty in her voice now, nor in the poise of her head.