She said nothing, but sat there, with her hands clasped about her knees, and I gazed up at her and was content. And the twilight faded and was gone.
“Now I must go,” she said at last.
She rose, regretfully, I thought, and the thought gave me joy. And that was marvel, too; for what was this governess to me—this governess whom I had seen but twice? But that unruly ganglion of mine—
“Adam,” she said, smiling down at me, “you have not scolded me. My gown”—
“Your gown is well enough,” I answered; “too good for clamming, but I suppose it is the worst you could do. If I said more of it, it would be that you look adorable in that gown—or any other. But I must not say it, or you will be angry.”
“No,” she said, “you must not say that, for anger heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain, and I have enough already. It is the oldest gown I have—and the shortest.”
“It is”—
“Never mind. If it is wasteful and wicked, I cannot help it. Will it do for digging clams to-morrow?”
“We may not dig clams to-morrow.”
“And why not, Adam,—if I will?”