“Dreams and love,” she repeated. “I wonder what love is!”
She laughed suddenly with a bitterness that he remembered for many a day.
“We’re coming,” she called, and hastened away toward her cousin and Pollock who waited, idling and trying their voices, and chaffing each other over their failure to carry a tune.
“We have gone far enough, Olive,” she said. “Let us go back now.”
They began retracing their steps, Zelda walking beside Pollock, to whom she talked with unusual vivacity. She did not speak to Leighton again until the two young men said good night at the veranda.
“What did you treat him that way for?” demanded Olive, facing Zelda in the hall as soon as the door closed.
“What are you talking about, ma petite cousine? The moon must have—”
“It wasn’t the moon! You said something unkind to Mr. Leighton. He walked back to the house with me without saying a word. You shouldn’t treat a man that way, even if you are my cousin,—a fine, splendid fellow like Morris Leighton!”
“You foolish, sentimental young thing, what on earth has got into you? Mr. Leighton talked to me about Wagner,—I think it was Wagner, and he didn’t interest me a bit. I’m going to bed.”
She went to her room and closed and locked the door. Then she drew back the curtains and looked out upon the night. Through an opening in the trees she saw Pollock and Leighton standing together in the highway outside the gate. Pollock had walked out leading his horse and he stood for greater ease in talking to Leighton. The men were clearly outlined, for it was as light as day. Suddenly they shook hands; then they lifted their hats to each other. Pollock mounted his horse and rode off rapidly countryward, and Leighton turned toward the interurban station.