“You might give me some more work at my job of confidant,” he said.
She began again, then; a story without detail; more a sentimental exposure of her feelings. The thing was growing like a canker; she fought it, but the decision, the feeling of his unhappiness should she give him final rejection, roosted on her pillow. It had never come to an engagement; it had been only an understanding; but she thought of dreadful things, even of his possible suicide, whenever she contemplated giving him the final blow.
The old-fashioned Waddington house stood on a big Spanish lot far out in the Mission. There was ground to spare; enough so that its original owners had room to plant trees without shading light from the windows. As they walked into the deep shadows, her voice took on an intonation like a suppressed sob.
“It is a comfort now to have said it, and it’s a new life to have you for support. Oh, 225 Bertram, what a big, strong friend you are! Be good to me, won’t you?”
She had stopped; in the shadows the clouded moon of her face looked up into his.
“Oh, won’t you be good to me?”
He slipped his arm about her; and suddenly he kissed her.
She suffered his kiss for only a moment; then she moved away. He let her go, and she rushed ahead to the door. When he reached the step, she had faced about.
“Consider my feelings, Bert Chester,” she said; and the screen door slammed.