"I don't care to go. I can't leave Mary here all alone. It wouldn't be safe."
She stayed silently in her corner as though waiting for him to leave—a white shadow beside the black mass of the lilac-bush. Dolly at the gate tossed her head until the reins scraped on the gate-post. Down in the orchard a whippoorwill cried.
He was like a horse that takes the bit and the driver was his own will—his own self. She made no resistance when he threw himself down beside her: she was pliant, her cheek cool, she even looked at him haughtily. He did not know that she slipped out of his arms just before he would have released her, nor that she was all one flame of triumphant happiness. She seemed as untouched as the starlight.
"Calista," he stammered, "I hope you overlook it."
"What about my sister Mary?" she asked, dryly. "I thought you didn't look to any one else."
"I didn't. I tell you the truth. I was unwilling. I fought it off all I could, but now I give in. I can do no more."
"So you think you like me as well as you like her?"
"Calista, I would ask you if Mary stood here and heard us."
The woman seemed to bloom like an opening rose. She looked at him, but it was as though she saw some vision of success that she was just about to grasp. "I am satisfied," she said.