“Well, at least don’t let us rush so,” the boy said. “This is a bully road. Remember where it goes to? Three miles of rolling country and then that farm-house where they have the buttermilk.”
“Oh, my!” said Clarice, “I can’t go that far! There’s not time.”
All of the things she said were true enough—and pardonable. Yet in her manner, she seemed making stock of these unfortunate contingencies. It was this that hurt Quincy. He resolved to try again.
“Clarice dear,” he began, “if you knew why I’ve not seen you so much of late, you’d not be mad at me.”
“Who said I was mad at you?”
“Well—I meant—”
“Sometimes, you’re too funny for words, Quincy Burt,” said the girl, serious as a sermon.
“Oh—be quiet!” The boy rebelled at this suggestion of being laughed at, despite the lack of a particle of smile in her. “I’m glad you’re not mad. All I wanted to say was—was that—well—the reason I’ve seen you less is not that I like you less.”
Clarice took this in silence.
“Look here!” The boy turned to her roughly almost—and stopped walking. The girl, of course, stopped also. He was turned so that she faced him. And still, she was quiet.