"I'm not going to church," she announced hurriedly. "I can't stay away from mother so long. She is—we're afraid she may be catching pneumonia."
He dropped his hand from his cap. His disappointment was so complete that it left him blank; he had nothing to say.
She turned over the snow with her foot, and patted it down nervously. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I"
"Oh, it's all right," he put in bravely. "Only I'll not have a chance to—I hope it isn't serious?"
"We don't know yet."
"What does the doctor say?"
She shook her head. "We haven't sent for him. We're waiting to see."
"Oh." He watched her working at the snow.
After an awkward silence, she said: "I must hurry right back." And there was a half-heartedness in the way she said it, as if she were assuring herself that she meant to do it, very soon.
He caught the note. "Won't you walk to the corner and back? It's better . . . waiting . . . out here."
A "cutter" passed them with a rousing jingle of bells. The sunlight was etching the shadow of bare branches on the snow. He saw in her face that she felt the contrast between the crisp brilliancy of the morning and the heavy atmosphere of indoors.
"Well," she agreed, as if conditionally.
When they had gone a few steps, he asked: "Have you ever seen the college?"
"No. . . . Is it far?"
