Justine, in reply to his question, had drawn back a step, slipping her letter into the breast of her jacket.
“That is hardly worth while, since it was addressed to you,” she answered with a slight smile as she turned to descend the post-office steps.
Wyant, still carrying his hat, and walking with quick uneven steps, followed her in silence till they had passed beyond earshot of the loiterers on the threshold; then, in the shade of the maple boughs, he pulled up and faced her.
“You’ve written to say that I may come tomorrow?”
Justine hesitated. “Yes,” she said at length.
“Good God! You give royally!” he broke out, pushing his hand with a nervous gesture through the thin dark curls on his forehead.
Justine laughed, with a trace of nervousness in her own tone. “And you talk—well, imperially! Aren’t you afraid to bankrupt the language?”
“What do you mean?” he said, staring.
“What do you mean? I have merely said that I would see you tomorrow”
“Well,” he retorted, “that’s enough for my happiness!”
She sounded her light laugh again. “I’m glad to know you’re so easily pleased.”
“I’m not! But you couldn’t have done a cruel thing without a struggle; and since you’re ready to give
[ 239 ]
