“Then why haven't you been to see me? If I have done anything—” Her voice was a-tingle with virtue and outraged friendship.
“You haven't done anything but—show me where I get off.”
He sat down on the edge of the balcony and stared out blankly.
“If that's the way you feel about it—”
“I'm not blaming you. I was a fool to think you'd ever care about me. I don't know that I feel so bad—about the thing. I've been around seeing some other girls, and I notice they're glad to see me, and treat me right, too.” There was boyish bravado in his voice. “But what makes me sick is to have everyone saying you've jilted me.”
“Good gracious! Why, Joe, I never promised.”
“Well, we look at it in different ways; that's all. I took it for a promise.”
Then suddenly all his carefully conserved indifference fled. He bent forward quickly and, catching her hand, held it against his lips.
“I'm crazy about you, Sidney. That's the truth. I wish I could die!”
The cat, finding no active antagonism, sprang up on the balcony and rubbed against the boy's quivering shoulders; a breath of air stroked the morning-glory vine like the touch of a friendly hand. Sidney, facing for the first time the enigma of love and despair sat, rather frightened, in her chair.