"Because—why, we couldn't go away together, alone: it wouldn't be right."
Max straightened suddenly. He released her hands and placed one tight arm about her waist.
"It vould be righd if I lofed you," he said. "Und I do lof you. Ve city folk, ve can't do things slow-like you liddle town people. Vhen I saw you this morning, I knew I liked you, because you vas so different from all these rubes around here; un' vhen I talk vith you this efenin' I know I lof you. Listen here: you come avay with me to-nighd. Ve vill go righd ofer to N'York, un' there ve get married righd avay. No more school, nor dishvashin', nor scoldin'. Your own fader vill be pleased vhen it's ofer, because my fader is reech, un' my fader vill be pleased too, because he's been devilin' me to marry for more'n a ye-ar, only I nefer till now found a girl I lof. Come on, Mary: I lof you!"
Her eyes swam in a mist. They had come then—love and freedom, hand in hand. Her soul grew faint within her. She struggled a little, fluttering like a young bird in a capturing palm, but he drew her tighter, and his free hand passed electrically across her cheek.
"Come on avay!" he urged softly.
"I—I don't know what to do!" she panted. "Wait—wait "—it was the ancient cry of womanhood upon the brink—"wait till to-morrow!"
There was a step behind them, which Max was the first to hear. He freed her, and they stood mute until the shadowy passer-by had gone. It was an incident that at least lessened the spell.
"Perhaps it's all right," said Mary. "Perhaps Etta didn't see me, an' I can tell 'em I was over at my girl-friend's."
"It's only puttin' off vhat's got to happen sometime," Max argued. "This town's no place for a girl like you."
He leaned toward her, but she drew, reluctantly, away. What might be well by day may well seem ill by night.