So he put on a white turtle-necked sweater and with a firm complacent tread he went down to join Sharon.
She was waiting in the hall, so light and young in her middy blouse and red tam.
“Let’s not talk seriously. I’m not Sister Falconer—I’m Sharon today. Gee, to think I’ve ever spoken to five thousand people! Come on! I’ll race you up the hill!”
The wide lower hall, traditionally hung with steel engravings and a Chickamauga sword, led from the front door, under the balcony of the staircase, to the garden at the back, still bold with purple asters and golden zinnias.
Through the hall she fled, through the garden, past the stone sundial, and over the long rough grass to the orchard on the sunny hill; no ceremonious Juno now but a nymph; and he followed, heavy, graceless, but pounding on inescapable, thinking less of her fleeting slenderness than of the fact that since he had stopped smoking his wind cer’nly was a lot better—cer’nly was.
“You can run!” she said, as she stopped, panting, by a walled garden with espalier pears.
“You bet I can! And I’m a grand footballer, a bearcat at tackling, my young friend!”
He picked her up, while she kicked and grudgingly admired, “You’re terribly strong!”
But the day of halcyon October sun was too serene even for his coltishness, and sedately they tramped up the hill, swinging their joined hands; sedately they talked (ever so hard he tried to live up to the Falconer Family, an Old Mansion, and Darky Mammies) of the world-menacing perils of Higher Criticism, and the genius of E. O. Excell as a composer of sacred but snappy melodies.