"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You remember
that young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea because
he bothered so, but I knew I'd say no."
Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queer
feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was
happiness. Sally stirred the pot once more.
"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know where
they've got to. Supper's ready now."
"Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip.
It was a relief to talk about practical things.
"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming."
Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment.
"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children to
bed?"
"Yes."
"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready."
He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their
ripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth rose
rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart was
beating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him.
He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was
nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could
have caused her to give herself.
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