"Nothing," she said. She had been right; it was McCormick. But it would require too much effort to talk about him.
The blinds of Mrs. Campbell's house were still down when they reached it. The tight roll of the morning paper lay on the porch. She would have to ring, of course, to get in. They faced each other on the damp cement walk, the freshness of the dewy lawns about them.
"Well, good-by."
"Good-by." They felt constrained in the daylight, under the blank stare of the windows. Their hands clung. "You really aren't mad at me, Helen, about anything?"
"Of course I'm not. Nothing's happened that wasn't as much my fault as it was yours."
"You'll let me know?"
She promised, though she had no intention of troubling him with her problems. It was not his fault that the boat was late, and she had gone as gladly as he. "Don't bother about it. I'll be all right. Good-by."
"Good-by." Still their fingers clung together. She felt a rush of tenderness toward him.
"Don't look so worried, you dear!" Quickly, daringly, she leaned toward him and brushed a butterfly's wing of a kiss upon his sleeve. Then, embarrassed, she ran up the steps.
"See you Saturday," he called in a jubilant undertone. She watched his stocky figure until it turned the corner. Then she rang the bell. There was time for the momentary glow to depart, leaving her weak and chilly, before Mrs. Campbell opened the door. She said nothing. Her eyes, her tight lips, her manner of drawing her dressing-gown back from Helen's approach, spoke her thoughts. Explanations would be met with scornful unbelief.