“I did not mean to be so wrong; but I was so unhappy and he cared—”
“What shall I do without you all winter?”
“What have you done without me every winter?” she asked merrily.
With an effort she drew herself away from the arm that would have encircled her. Morbidly fearful of making another mistake, she would not answer his words or his tone.
“The witches get into me at night,” she said, soberly, “and I say things that I may regret in the sunlight.”
“It is not like you to regret speaking truth. Remember, I do not exact any promise from you; but if the time ever come that you know you love me, I want you to tell me so.”
“I will.”
He drove up under the maple trees, before the low iron fence, as he had done on the last night of the old year; another old year was almost ended; they stood holding each other’s hand, neither caring to speak.
Ralph Towne would not have been himself, if he had not bent and kissed her lips; and she would not have been herself, had she not received it gravely and gladly. After that it was not easy to go in among the talkers and the lights; she stood longer than a moment on the piazza, schooling herself to bear scrutiny, to answer with unconcern; still she felt dizzy and answered the first questions rather at random.
“Going around in the dark has set your wits to wool-gathering,” said her mother.