“I’m not going alone,” she said quickly. “I’m—I’m——”
She broke off in confusion, and Blanche urged her gently.
“Yes?”
“Andy’s promised to take me. He’ll drive me in, and drive me out again. He’s——”
“Yes?”
There was no smile in Blanche’s eyes now. They were urgent, and something of their calm had gone. She was thinking of Jim. She was thinking of the possible meaning of this man, Andy, whoever he was, driving Molly into the dance.
But just on the brink Molly drew back. That which she had been about to say remained unspoken. Instead she laughed.
“Oh, Andy’s a neighbour. He’s ten miles down the creek on Whale River. He’s only just started his homestead about two years. He’s a great worker, and he’ll make good. You know, Blanche, the boy who’s got the grit to start right up on bare ground, without capital, an’ make good farming, gets all my notions of a man. Think of it. These hills. The awful, awful winter. It’s us folk know what it means. You don’t; you’re a visitor. My it’s—it’s just ter’ble.”
The girl’s effort at concealment was sheer revelation.
“I must try and get to that dance,” Blanche said, avoiding the subject of the man deliberately. “I’d just love to see you all fixed up in your party frock. What’ll it be? Let’s see, you’re dark. And those grey eyes of yours. You mustn’t wear white. It’s too ordinary for you. Pink? No,” she went on critically. “It mustn’t be dark, either. I should rather think the palest of pale blue. You can’t go wrong that way. Say, have you a nice frock?”