"Jack left for Fourteen some time ago. He was going to ask you and Marjorie to come over. You must have passed him."
"That's rather funny. That's what I came for, if you reverse it. Strange I didn't see him on the way."
"He may have looked in at the stable again, to make sure that the stock are all right," Jean suggested. "He said it looked like rough weather."
I stood for a moment, undecided whether I should go back for Jack and Marjorie, or ask Jean to go with me. It was she who settled the question.
"Take off your things, Frank," she invited. "Jack will be there by this time, and will keep Marjorie company. It is not a good night for a girl to go walking."
So I stayed, although a little self-consciously. Jean and I had known each other's company since childhood, but, at least since coming to the West, we had hardly seen each other alone. Always Jack or Marjorie, or both, were somewhere about. There had been, of course, that sudden, impetuous, unspoken revelation when we returned from our harvest absence in the settlements, but there had been no talk of love between Jean and me. I had treasured that moment as a bit of wonderful memory, as a glimpse of wonderful promise, but I had not presumed upon it; I had concluded that two months' loneliness had been too much for Jean's reserve, and that she had done something it hardly would be fair to talk about. . . . Doubtless Jack, when he found I had missed him, would be back shortly.
I took my wraps off and sat down beside the stove. The warmth was very pleasant after the buffeting of the snow, and Jean looked very lovely and tempting in the soft glow of the lamp on the table. I felt a strange embarrassment growing upon me as the moments were ticked off by the little alarm clock on the shelf. The embarrassment grew until I felt that I must break it by speech of some kind.
"What are you reading?" I ventured at last.
"Nothing."
"Nothing! You have a book——"