She started: I recall that her eyes were round and troubled with incomprehension.
“I’ve come to tell you, Judith,” says I, “that I do not care.”
’Twas a brave lie: I am proud of it.
“’Tis kind,” she whispered.
We were alone. ’Twas dusk: ’twas dusk, to be sure, of a disquieting day, with the sky most confidently foreboding some new and surprising tactics in the ancient warfare of the wind against us; but Judith and I, being young and engaged with the passion of our years, had no consciousness of the signs and wonders of the weather. The weather concerns the old, the satisfied and disillusioned of life, the folk from whom the romance of being has departed. What care had we for the weather? ’Twas dusk, and we were alone at the turn of the road––a broad, rocky twist in the path, not without the softness of grass, where lovers had kissed in parting since fishing was begun from Twist Tickle and Whisper Cove. By the falling shades and a screen of young leaves we were hid from the prying eyes of Whisper Cove. ’Twas from me, then, that the maid withdrew into a deeper shadow, as though, indeed, ’twas not fit that we should be together. I was hurt: but fancied, being stupid and self-centred, that ’twas a pang of isolation to which I must grow used.
“Why, Judy,” says I, “don’t, for pity’s sake, do that! Why, maid,” I protested, “I don’t care. I’m glad––I’m just glad!”
“Glad!” she faltered, staring.
“To be sure I’m glad,” I cried.
She came close to me.