But she marched into the dining-room, and, sitting at the table, opened a writing pad and picked up a pencil. Fate did not even let her wait for ink! She accepted Mr. Westcott’s offer with pleasure and would send him her programme of songs inside of two days.
Signing her name, she glanced up to see Betsey Pilrig standing in the doorway.
“Thurley, you look up to mischief! Where have you been?”
Thurley sealed the envelope with an emphatic little thump, “I can’t tell you until I’ve told Dan.”
“I guess as long as you tell Dan first, I can wait,” Betsey answered.
But had she witnessed the telling she would not have complacently made beaten biscuit, wondering if Dan was coming home for supper with Thurley.
For Thurley, racing impatiently back from the post office to keep her daily tryst with Dan, had come upon him returning from the cemetery.
“You’re an hour late,” he complained.
She started to explain and then something kept “ticking” these words into her head like an insistent clock, “I am rich and lonesome and your voice has made me know I want to love some one again.” So all she answered was,
“Must I account to you for every moment?” flinging herself down by the road and playing with Zaza.