Sanders waited in silence. He had learned to let the burden of conversation rest on his opponent, and he knew that Joyce just now was in that class.
She hesitated, uncertain of her opening. Then, "You're disappointing your friends, Mr. Sanders," she said lightly.
He did not know what an effort it took to keep her voice from quavering, her hand from trembling as it rested on the onyx top of the table.
"I'm sorry," he said a second time.
"Perhaps it's our fault. Perhaps we haven't been … friendly enough."
The lifted eyes went straight into his.
He found an answer unexpectedly difficult. "No man ever had more generous friends," he said at last brusquely, his face set hard.
The girl guessed at the tense feeling back of his words.
"Let's walk," she replied, and he noticed that the eyes and mouth had softened to a tender smile. "I can't talk here, Dave."
They made a pretense of finishing their sodas, then walked out of the town into the golden autumn sunlight of the foothills. Neither of them spoke. She carried herself buoyantly, chin up, her face a flushed cameo of loveliness. As she took the uphill trail a small breath of wind wrapped the white skirt about her slender limbs. He found in her a new note, one of unaccustomed shyness.
The silence grew at last too significant. She was driven to break it.