“Homesick? No chance!”
Sarah took his head in her hands. “Won’t you get a little homesick for me, dear—just once in a while?”
At this, Quincy smiled. He preferred it. Yet of the two, his sister’s had been the selfless remark.
He kissed them both—unostentatiously, though both longed to linger with his dark, serious head beside their own. Both of these women loved him. Yet, at the time, they were no more than momentary details on his path—obstructions of no import on his vision. So he drew his head away from their hands and lips as quickly as he could. And then, stung triflingly by conscience at the fact that he had done just this, he stepped back, half-way across the room, kissed them again, saw the gleam of tears in their eyes, and sturdily marched out.
“Don’t come downstairs!”
But they stepped after him. Adelaide helped him on with his new coat. His mother gave a loving brush to his new hat. And then, Adelaide spoke.
“Oh, Quincy! You’ve fifty minutes yet.” She had espied the parlor clock.
The boy held back, ashamed at his puerile impatience. The girl clapped her hands with a sudden thought that evidently gave her pleasure.
“I’ll take you to the station, Quincy.”
“No. That’s ridiculous.” He did not want her.