But she hurried on resolutely toward the house, and there was nothing to do but follow. “Will you take my word for it, Annie,—that you 'll do best to let him alone?”
She shook her head and hurried along.
On the steps sat a gloomy figure—Dick, in his Sunday clothes, white shirt and collar, red necktie, and all. His elbows rested on his knees, his chin rested on his hands, and the darkness of the great black Lake was in his soul. He watched the approaching figures without raising his head; he saw Beveridge lift his hat and turn away toward the bank; he let Annie come forward alone without speaking to her.
She put one foot on the bottom step, and nodded up at him. “Here I am, Dick. Do you want to sit here or—or walk?”
He got up, and came slowly down to the sand.
“So this is the way you treat me, Annie?”
“I'm not late, am I, Dick? It can't be much after eight.”
“So you go walking with him, when—when—”
“Now, Dick, don't be foolish. Mr. Beveridge came around early, and wanted me to walk, and—and I told him I couldn't stay away—”
She was not quite her usual sprightly self; and the manner of this speech was not convincing. Dick's reply was a subdued sound that indicated anything but satisfaction.