And she knew that this love of hers was no light thing, to be dismissed by order. That it was a primitive savage thing, stronger than she was. After all, she was no child. She had had her small affairs, her light romances. This was different.
At five o'clock she dressed herself carefully and went down to the verandah. It was, in a way, a test she set herself. If Tom came to her there he cared, if he did not
It was an hour before he came, and then he was gentler than she had expected, even rather ill at ease.
"Well," he drawled with his faint smile, "it seems like we're kinda out of luck all round, don't it?"
"You mean, about the Fair?"
"So they've told you; have they?"
When she made no reply, but sat gazing out with miserable eyes across the plains, he rolled a cigarette slowly and sat down on the step at her feet.
"Just what is the big idea? Is it the bunch-quitting they object to? Or just me?"
"It's not you," she said hastily. "It's just—anybody."
"I notice they don't mind this Percy of yours."
"It has nothing to do with Herbert. He's a member of the family."
"Like hell he is!" he said, with sudden resentment. "Oh, I get you all right. You're not telling me anything I don't know. I suppose you'll up and marry him some of these days. That's what they're saying around here, anyhow."
"Never."
"Still, you're a good little girl. You'll do what they tell you. You're doing it now, aren't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you'd like to go to the Fair tomorrow. With me," he added, glancing up at her. "But you won't."
"I don't want to worry them."
"Worry them? What are they worrying about?" he demanded. "I'm not going to kidnap you. You're safe with me—safe as a church."
But now that the issue had come she found a certain courage with which to meet it.
