“It’s Kitty’s idea,” said one, “we are to go in the vans. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Nice lady. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left.
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