Troubled, he made no answer.
"Nothing is decided, of course," he said at last, rather surprised at the avowal.
They tramped up the hill, averting their heads occasionally as truant gusts of wind whirled snow-sprays in their eyes, chatting confidentially on less intimate subjects.
"Let's go softly and peek in," she said, returning into her mischievous self as the great gabled house afire with lights loomed before them. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, peeping about a protecting tree at the group in the drawing-room. Mr. Drake was reading under the lamp, Fred and Gladys ensconced in the bay window, while Doris at the phonograph had resorted to Caruso.
"Heavens, what an orgy!— Sh-h. Hurry now."
A second time they went plunging into the night, close together, more sober, the silence cut only by the hissing rush and an occasional warning from Drina, as each obstacle sprang past. But her voice was no longer hilarious with the glee of a child; it was attuned to the hush and slumber of the countryside.
"I hate the city!" she said rebelliously when again they had come to a stop. "I hate the life they want me to lead."
All at once a quick resentment came to him, at the thought that she should change and be turned into worldly ways.
"I'm afraid you're not made for a social career, Patsie," he said slowly. "I would hate to think of your being different."
"You can't say what you want, or do what you want, or let people know what you feel," she said in an outburst. "Just let them try to marry me off to any old duke or count and see what'll happen!"