TWO MEETINGS AFTER DARK
For a moment neither Beth nor Van could speak. The girl, like a startled moon-sprite, wide-eyed and grave, had taken on a mood of beauty such as the man had never seen. She seemed to him strangely fragile, a trifle pale, but wholly exquisite, enchanting.
No signs were on her face, but she had wept—hot, angry tears, within the hour. And here was the cause of them all! She had wished he would come—and feared he would come, as conflicting emotions possessed her. Now that he stood here, with moonlight on half of his face, her thoughts were all unmarshaled.
Van presently spoke.
"I'm a kid, after all. I couldn't go away without—this."
"I wish you had! I wish you had!" she answered, at his smile. "I wish I had never seen you in the world!"
His heart was sore for jesting, but he would not change his way.
"If not in the world, where would you have wished to see me, then?"
"I never wished to see you at all!" she replied. "Your joke has gone too far. You have utterly mistaken my sense of gratitude."
"Guess not," he said. "I haven't looked for gratitude—nor wanted it, either."