She put the hat on carelessly, with a push and a pat and slipped past
him down the steps and across the lawn. Her dress brushed against his
foot as she went and it seemed like the touch of something ethereal. He
never had felt such an experience before.
She walked swiftly to a group of boys, ugly, uncomely, overgrown kids,
the same who had followed her after church, and met them with
eagerness. He felt a jealous chagrin as he watched them follow her into
the church, an anger that she dared to trample upon him that way, a
fierce desire to get away and quaff the cup of admiration at the hand
of some of his own friends, or to quaff some cup, any cup, for
he was thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, and this was a dry and barren
land. If he did stay and try to win this haughty country beauty he
would have to find a secret source of supply somewhere or he never
would be able to live through it.
The Sunday-school hour wore away while he was planning how to revenge
himself, but she did not return. She lingered for a long time on the
church steps talking with those everlasting kids again, and after they
were gone she went back into the church and began to play low, sweet
music.
It was growing late. Long red beams slanted down the village street
across the lawn, lingered and went out. A single ruby burned on one of
the memorial windows like a lamp, and went purple and then gray. It was
growing dusk, and that girl played on! Dash it all! Why didn't she
quit? It was wonderful music, but he wanted to talk to her. If he
hobbled slowly could he get across that lawn? He decided to try. And
then, just as he rose and steadied himself by the porch pillar, down
the street in a whirl of dust and noisy claxon there came a great blue
car and drew up sharp in front of the door, while a lute-like voice
shouted gaily: "Laurie, Laurie Shafton, is that you?"