en years!—it lightens now, for him. There is only a quick, soft wind, that comes gusting about my unskirted ankles as Mr Way tugs open the door.—''Thank you, Mr Way,'' says Richard, bending his arm for me to take. He wears a low black hat, a dark wool coat, and lavender gloves. Mr Way observes the gloves, then looks at me in a kind of satisfaction, a kind of scorn.
Fancy yourself a lady, do you? he said to me, the day he carried me, kicking, to the ice-house. Well, we''ll see.
I will not walk to the ice-house today, with Richard, but choose another path—a longer, blander path, that circles my uncle''s estate, rises and overlooks the rear of the house, the stables, woods, and chapel. I know the view too well to want to gaze at it, and walk with my eyes upon the ground. He keeps my arm in his, and Sue follows behind us—first close, then falling back when he makes our pace grow brisk. We do not speak, but as we walk he slowly draws me to him. My skirt rises, awkwardly.
When I try to pull away, however, he will not let me. I say at last: ''You need not hold me so close.''
He smiles. ''We must seem convincing.''
''You needn''t grip me so. Have you anything to whisper, that I don''t already know?''
He gazes quickly over his shoulder. ''She would think it queer,'' he
says, ''were I to let slip these chances to be near you. Anyone would think that queer.''