“Why,” said I, with perhaps a suspicion of relief, “I believe that is Rosie.”
Dickie, gripping the tiller hard, was staring as one in a trance. My words roused him.
“Rosie? What Rosie?” said he.
“Why, the one who gave you the cherries.”
“Is it?” asked Dickie, stoically. Then, with studied carelessness and devilish abandon: “I say, old man, toss me a cigar, will you? I feel like having a smoke.”
After dinner I found Dickie in his room. There was a scent of burned paper in the air and fresh ashes were in the grate. The mercury was close to ninety.
“Chilly?” said I.
Dickie laughed unconvincingly. “No, just burning some old trash. Want to take a tramp?”
I did. Was it chance or the immutable workings of fate which took us in time past the house of the cherry tree? In a porch hammock was Rosie, a vision of budding beauty only half clouded in flimsy lawn and lace. Yet with never a turn of the head Dickie swaggered by, talking meanwhile to me in tones meant to carry an idea of much light-heartedness. Over my shoulder I noted that Rosie was standing watching us, a puzzled look on her face.
“Dick!” It was rather a faint call, but loud enough to be heard.