“I like this place,” said she, breaking a long silence, “it is so dismal —so uncanny. Do you know I wouldn’t dare to sit here alone, Jem. I should imagine that all sorts of dreadful things were hidden behind the bushes and trees, waiting to spring out on me. Ugh!”
“You’d better let me take you in,” said her companion tenderly; “the well isn’t always wholesome, especially in the hot weather.
“Let’s make a move.”
The girl gave an obstinate little shake, and settled herself more securely on her seat.
“Smoke your cigar in peace,” she said quietly. “I am settled here for a quiet talk. Has anything been heard of Wilfred yet?”
“Nothing.”
“Quite a dramatic disappearance, isn’t it?” she continued. “Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain; ‘Dear Jem, help me out.’”
Jem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, and holding his cigar between his teeth brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves.
“I wonder what he would have done without you,” said the girl, pressing his arm affectionately. “Gone under long ago, I suppose. When we are married, Jem, I shall presume upon the relationship to lecture him. He is very wild, but he has his good points, poor fellow.”
“I never saw them,” said Benson, with startling bitterness. “God knows I never saw them.”