The last word was all he cared for, and by what sleight of hand he slipped his fraternity pin from his vest into her hand, neither ever knew.
"Will you?" he asks. "For me?"
She pins it at her throat, and smiles. Then she says, "Is this long enough—do you want it back now?"
He shakes his head, and finally she asks, "When?" and then it comes out:—
"Never."
And her face reddens, and she does not speak. Their hands, on the wall, have met—they just touch, that is all, but they do not hasten apart. A long, long time they are silent—an eternity of a minute; and then she says, "We shall see in the morning."
And then another eternal minute rolls by, and the youth slips the rose from her hair—quickly, and without disarranging a strand.
"Oh," she cries, "Neal!" and then adds, "Let me get you a pretty one—that is faded."
But no, he will have that one, and she stands beside him and pins it on his coat—stands close beside him, and where her elbows and her arms touch him he is thrilled with delight. In the shadow of the great porch they stand a moment, and her hand goes out to his.
"Well, Jeanette," he says, and still her hand does not shrink away, "well, Jeanette—it will be lonesome when you go."