“I hope your cousin likes it, too. I know Tom does, and we will go to-morrow, perhaps, if it is fine. Or, no, not so soon as that, perhaps. You will wish to get over the fatigue of your journey.”
He was beginning to draw back, thinking he might be a little too fast in his attentions, but Irene disclaimed all thoughts of fatigue.
“I am never tired, any more than I take cold,” she said. “Both are fallacies.”
Reginald looked startled, wondering a second time if she were given to new fads and isms and what he should do if she were—he, who was so matter-of-fact that it took him a long time to believe anything out of the ordinary. He was very anxious to get away, and in his anxiety came near forgetting to bid me good-night. He remembered it, however, at last, and lifting his hat to us all walked rapidly away.
“What’s your awful hurry?” Tom said, nothing loath to linger in the soft night air, with Rena’s eyes shining on him.
Reginald did not answer, nor turn his head, and saying good-by to us Tom started down the lane with long strides which soon brought him up to his friend.
CHAPTER VIII
CONFIDENCES AND COMMUNINGS
Irene had not passed a very pleasant evening and was in a bad humor, and as we entered the house she complained loudly of the condition of her organdie, which she declared spoiled with the dew, beside having a big spot of mud upon it.
“I had no business to sit there so long in that damp, poky place. I am chilled through, and Mr. Travers was just as uncomfortable as I was and wanted to get away.”
Neither of us answered her, and she said no more until she was in her room, divesting herself of her limp organdie and wet boots.