Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke.
"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly.
Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his.
"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't talk—I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it—"
"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about everything," said Mary coldly.
"Well, you're not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!"
He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle.
It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She was right—he was impatient and violent, and foolish—awfully foolish. No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...?
He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace.