If she was reluctant, as he called her downstairs, so was the sun that came through the pervasive grey like a little shot of fire. They went forth, and the sun gave way, altogether, before the clouds.
It was evident to Quincy that Clarice was angry at his sudden lessening of attention. He did not know that this anger might have been adduced from the fact that his behavior left a void in her heart. He thought only her pride was injured. That was why he said, by way of buttress to it:
“I understand—Rhoda told me—you were going to live in New York next winter and have society.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Are you glad about dances and parties?”
Clarice puckered her pale-red lips. “No! I shall hate them.”
“Then,” Quincy went on, gladdened, “why are you going to do it?”
“You have to—of course. Everybody does.” Clarice talked as to one who could not possibly understand. And Quincy, acquiescent in the import of her tone, grew silent.
They wandered along a neglected road, half green with grass. A barbed wire fence straggled through the opaque bushes, laden with berries. They were walking rather more rapidly than their wont. It was as if the unconscious impulse of their limbs was to free each from the other. Quincy wore a grey, soft shirt. He had flared it at the throat, allowing his blue tie to fall low over his chest. Instinctively, his fingers groped to his neck, buttoned the collar close and drew up the tie.
“I’ve packed all my rompy clothes, Quint,” said Clarice, suggesting thereby that their ancient habit of striking across fence and meadow must be abandoned for want of a fit dress.