Lucy threw back her head with one of her rippling laughs.
“He had to,” she added merrily. “Mother’d have married Dad anyway.”
Ellen studied the tea grounds in the bottom of her cup thoughtfully.
How strange it was to picture Thomas the hero of a romance like this! She had heard that once in his life every man became a poet; probably this was Thomas’s era of transformation.
Her reverie was broken by the gentle voice of Lucy, who observed:
“And that’s what I’d do, too.”
“What?” inquired Ellen vaguely. In her reverie about Thomas she had lost the connection.
“Marry the man I loved no matter what anybody said. Wouldn’t you?”
“I—I—don’t know,” stammered Ellen, getting to her feet with embarrassment at having a love affair thrust so intimately upon her. “Mebbe. I must go back now to Tony an’ the weedin’. When you get cleared up round here, there’s plenty of mendin’ to be done. You’ll find that hamper full of stockin’s to be darned.” 63
After Ellen had gone out, Lucy did not rise immediately from the table, but sat watching the clouds that foamed up behind the maples on the crest of the nearby hill. A glory of sunshine bathed the earth, and she could see the coral of the apple buds sway against the sky. It was no day to sit within doors and darn socks. All Nature beckoned, and to Lucy, used from birth to being in the open, the alluring gesture was irresistible.