“When do the squad go to Ireland?”
“Next Friday, if all goes well,” she answered.
“So soon!” Morrison exclaimed, and in his voice there was a vague hint of regret. “Are you glad to get home again?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And the rest of the squad—what are they doing this evening? Are they playing cards?”
“The men are; the women are singin’, some of them; and Gourock Ellen and Annie are mendin’ their clothes.”
“It is getting dark quickly,” said Morrison. “Are you coming back now?”
“Is it time?” she asked, then said, “I suppose it is.”
He was going to the farm and it would be nice to have his company. She had seen him going out and anticipated meeting him coming home. Perhaps that was why she had come; if so she did not dare to confess it, even to herself. She now thought that she should not have come; a tremor shook her for a moment, then she turned and went back along the lane with the young man.
A car drawn by a white pony came up behind them, and they stepped nearer to the line of hazel bushes to let it pass. They were now very close to one another.