"But we can't do anything but wait, dear, can we?"
He did not answer.
They waited. Half an hour passed. Then John Willie muttered again that, among so many other things that would "do" beautifully, this particular thing would not "do." June coloured a little.
"But—but—it isn't our fault," she murmured, picking at the fingers of her gloves.
He saw she understood. Again they waited.
Then, suddenly, John Willie came shortly out with that reason that must serve in the stead of his real reason. He knew how lame it was. A score or two of other young couples were in precisely the same situation as they, and more that cheerfully resigned to their plight; but then they were not being goaded and taunted as John Willie was being goaded and taunted. They were not being told that their paths lay, so to speak, on flowers, while the paths of others were the stony road, that cut and blistered the foot, and tired the eyes, and bowed the back (but had no power, perhaps, thus to reproach the heart).... Anyway, John Willie was not disposed to stand it.
"June," he said abruptly, "I can't stay up here all night with you."
Her wail interrupted him.—"Oh-h-h!—--"
"It wouldn't do."
"Oh-h-h—it isn't our fault——"