“Clarice, don’t you like me, too?”
She met his face. It was very still and solemn. And the mouth quivered a bit, though he drew it close in order to control it. And the eyes were a very deep, piercing blue, indeed. It was the inevitable moment for seventeen girlish years to laugh.
“What do you think—you silly? Would I have seen you so much—?”
“Then, Clarice,” Quincy put his hands forward and broke in, so eager was he, “you will see me, next winter?”
Of course, Clarice drew back, bodily, from his onrush. And of course, her words symbolized her action. It was nothing more.
“I shall be awful busy, Quint.”
They stood in the middle of the road. It was long and green and silent. A great elm, its trunk choking in poison-ivy, leaned over them. The boy grasped her shoulders and drew her toward him.
“Promise me, Clarice dear,—you’ll see me when I come to New York, next Christmas. Even with all the parties. Give me a kiss in promise.”
Her face was directly under his. And her lips were smiling. With no effort, he kissed them. They were cool and soft and pricking. It was as if he had kissed a smile. How different from this granted kiss had been the stolen one, of Rhoda! But now, her face was a little flushed and the smile was gone—as if he had kissed it away. Clarice fell back a step. And Quincy spoke though a bubble of warmth kept rising in his throat.
“That was a promise, Clarice?”