CHAPTER XXXI
THEIR night came unheralded.
Kennicott was on a country call. It was cool but Carol huddled on the porch, rocking, meditating, rocking. The house was lonely and repellent, and though she sighed, “I ought to go in and read—so many things to read—ought to go in,” she remained. Suddenly Erik was coming, turning in, swinging open the screen door, touching her hand.
“Erik!”
“Saw your husband driving out of town. Couldn't stand it.”
“Well——You mustn't stay more than five minutes.”
“Couldn't stand not seeing you. Every day, towards evening, felt I had to see you—pictured you so clear. I've been good though, staying away, haven't I!”
“And you must go on being good.”
“Why must I?”
“We better not stay here on the porch. The Howlands across the street are such window-peepers, and Mrs. Bogart——”