“ ‘The younger generation is knocking at the door,’ Jane,” he had smiled. “But they have the right idea. Come out and walk five miles with me before sunset.”
She had gone for her hat and coat without a moment’s hesitation. Everyone was staying on for supper. The children were playing jackstraws, and Stephen was talking politics with Mr. Ward and Robin, and her mother and Isabel were discussing Bert Lancaster’s paralysis, with an occasional digression on Flora’s hat shop. She was not needed in the living-room and she would love a long walk.
They went out the terrace door and down the garden path and out into the fields in the opposite direction from the one which the children had taken. The November day was very cold and clear. The oak trees were already bare. The winter fields were brown. A high northwest wind was blowing across the Skokie Valley. It was difficult to talk in the teeth of the gale, and they had covered nearly two miles over the uneven stubble before they said much of anything. Then they paused in the shelter of a haystack.
“We must go back,” said Jane, trying to tuck her windblown pompadour under her felt hat-brim.
“Must we?” said Jimmy. “This walk was just what I wanted.”
“I’m all out of breath,” said Jane. “That last cornfield was rough going for an old lady.” She drew in a great gasp of the bracing autumn air.
“Was it?” said Jimmy. “You don’t look much older than Cicily this minute. Your cheeks are red and your eyes are bright and your mussy hair is pretty. That’s the true test of age for a woman. She’s young as long as she looks beguiling with mussy hair!”
“I look like a wild Indian,” said Jane, still struggling with the pompadour. “You ought to look at Cicily when the wind gets romping with her head of excelsior.”
“That’s Jack Bridges’ privilege,” said Jimmy. “I’m no cradle-snatcher.”
Jane left the haystack and started to walk back across the cornfield. It was easier to talk, now, with the wind at their backs. Nevertheless, they did not say anything for several minutes. Jane was hoping that Jack would bring Cicily home before dark. Jimmy broke the silence.
“Whose privilege was it, Jane, to look at you when you were Cicily’s age?” he asked.
Jane started at the question. But she did not answer.
“I bet someone did,” said Jimmy. “Who was he, Jane?”
“Oh,” said Jane vaguely, “he—he was—just a boy.”
“A broth of a boy?” questioned Jimmy. “Did you get much of a kick out of it?”
“Yes, I did,” said Jane simply.
Jimmy looked very much amused at her candour.
“We all do at that age,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll never forget the girl who fell off the mourners’ bench.”
Jane felt very indignant at the tacit comparison.
“Oh!” she said quickly. “He wasn’t like that!”
“How do you know what she was like?” smiled Jimmy.
“I know she wasn’t like André,” said Jane. The name had slipped out unconsciously.
“Do you mean that André never taught you anything you couldn’t learn at a camp meeting?” queried Jimmy. “Oh, Jane!”
“I mean that André wasn’t like anyone—anyone else I’ve ever met,” said Jane.
“My God!” said Jimmy, addressing the empty November sky. “She never got over him! I hope,” he continued severely, “that you confessed him to Stephen.”
“Oh, I confessed him to Stephen,” said Jane.
Again Jimmy looked very much amused at her candour.
“Good girl!” he said approvingly. “You must always confess them to Stephen.”
Jane thought that her mother would think that Jimmy was taking the marriage vows lightly. She almost thought so herself.
“There haven’t been any others,” she said severely.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” said Jimmy.
“Not really any others,” said Jane.
“While there’s life there’s hope,” said Jimmy.
“I don’t want any others,” said Jane indignantly.
“Oh, Jane!” said Jimmy.
“I don’t,” protested Jane. “I think clandestine love affairs would be horribly inconvenient.”
“There are higher things than convenience,” said Jimmy sublimely.
Jane ignored his comment.
“And I think,” she went on, “they’d be dreadfully smirching and soiling. And too terrible to look back on when they were over. They would be over, you know. You get over loving anyone—”
“Oh!” said Jimmy. “You’ve discovered that, have you?”
“No, I haven’t!” said Jane quickly. “I—I’ve just—observed it.”
Jimmy chuckled quietly to himself. They walked nearly half a mile in silence. As they entered the garden, he resumed the conversation.
“You do get over loving anyone, Jane,” he said gently. “But you don’t always regret that love in retrospect.”
Jane thought that sounded very sweet and understanding.
“Perhaps not,” she said. By this time they had reached the apple tree.
Jimmy paused for a moment beside the clump of evergreens. Jane looked up at him with a smile. They had had a nice walk.
“Jane,” said Jimmy suddenly, “are you really as innocent as you seem?”
Jane’s eyes widened in astonishment. Jimmy’s eyes were very bright. His breath was coming quickly and a funny excited little smile twisted the corners of his mouth.
“You’re like a child, Jane,” said Jimmy. “An inexperienced child!”
Jane still stared at him.
“Jane,” said Jimmy suddenly, “I’m going to kiss you.” And he caught her suddenly in his arms and turned her face to his.
“Jimmy!” cried Jane in horror. “Jimmy!” His lips stopped her words. He
