“Nothing in it! Life’s full of things to do—you know that! I believe you’re just trying to psychoanalyze me!”
“I swear I’m not! I was in the depths this morning; that’s why I called you up!”
“Now——” She carefully measured a short approach and played it neatly. “Oh, you didn’t want to see me socially, so to speak; you just wanted someone to tell your troubles to! Is that a back-handed compliment?”
“Rather a confession—do you hate it?”
“No—I rather like that.”
With an artistic eye she watched him drive a long low ball with his brassie. His tall figure, the free play of arms and shoulders, his boyish smile when she praised the shot, contributed to a new impression of him. He appeared younger than the night he called on her, when she had thought him diffident, old-fashioned and stiffly formal.
As they walked over the turf with a misty drizzle wetting their faces fitfully it seemed to both that their acquaintance had just begun. When he asked if she didn’t want to quit she protested that she was dressed for any weather. It was unnecessary to accommodate himself to her in any way; she walked as rapidly as he; when she sliced her ball into the rough she bade him not follow her, and when she had gotten into the course again she ran to join him, as though eager not to break the thread of their talk. The thing she was doing at a given moment was, he judged, the one thing in the world that interested her. The wind rose presently and blew the mist away and there was promise of a clearing sky.
“You’ve brought the sun back!” he exclaimed. “Something told me you had influence with the weather.”
“I haven’t invoked any of my gods today; so it’s just happened.”
“Your gods! You speak as though you had a list!”