she skipped forward, backward, forgetting some one or something she ought to tell before he could understand some one or something else; and of course she told the same happening over twice, frequently, repeating something Clara or Jake or Mr. Rinderfeld had said or she had thought. And it was a wonderful satisfaction—a wonderful relief—to go over it all with Gregg just as it came to her, to be able to say anything just as it struck her, without having to think how he would take it differently and without fear—absolutely without fear of him.
"I think," she said impulsively to him once, when she was feeling this, "you're the best sort of friend in the world, Gregg."
"Pretty dark, now," he replied; for it was in some sense a reply, at least a commentary on her praise of him.
"What do you mean?" she asked, obviously not questioning the fact that night had come.
"Oh, you're not getting a view of me."
What had she been saying just before, she wondered. She remembered that she had been speaking about Mr. Rinderfeld.
"Had supper, Marjorie?" Gregg inquired.
"No."
"Let's have some." He pushed himself up and recovered his hat.
"Where shall we? Can't we have it here? You and I go up to a delicatessen and get something and bring it back here. Or" Marjorie seized her plan as she spoke—"I've the key of a boathouse just up here where Sam Troufrie has a canoe. Clara keeps it—the key, I mean. She gave it to me to-night."
