"Nothing serious, I'm sure. I can't imagine any one being unkind to you, Sally."
"It's nice of you to say that. But I'm not perfect and I don't pretend to be!"
Sympathy and tenderness surged within him at this absurd suggestion that any one could harbor a doubt of Sally's perfection. Her modesty, the tone of her voice called for some more concrete expression of his understanding than he could put into words. Her hand, dimly discernible in the dusk of the June stars, was invitingly near. He clasped and held it, warm and yielding. She drew it away in a moment but not rebukingly. The contact with her hand had been inexpressibly thrilling. Not since his prep school days had he held a girl's hand, and the brook and the stars sang together in ineffable chorus. It was bewildering to find that so trifling an act could afford sensations so charged with all the felicity of forbidden delight.
"I wonder," she said presently; "I wonder whether you would—whether you really would do something for me?"
"Anything in my power," he declared hoarsely.
"What time is it?" she asked with a jarring return to practical things.
She bent her head close as he held a match to his watch. It was half past eight.
"We'll have to hurry," she said. "When I told you pop and I didn't always agree about everything I was thinking—"
"Is it about a man?" he asked, surmising the worst and steeling himself for the blow if it must fall. He would show her how generously chivalrous a man could be toward a girl who honored him with her confidence and appealed for his assistance.
"It would be a long story," she said sadly, "and there isn't time to tell it, but the moment I saw you were so big and brave and strong, I thought you might help."