Their lips were almost touching when a noise brought them to themselves with a shock. It was Mamie. She entered the room bearing a tray on which were sandwiches, cakes, and tall glasses in which cracked ice clinked coolingly. Kenneth hid his annoyance and, with as nonchalant an air as possible, went back to his chair.
When they had eaten, Jane rose to go. Kenneth walked home with her. Neither spoke until they had reached her gate. Jane entered as Kenneth held it open for her. He would have followed her in but she turned, extended her hand to him as a sign of dismissal, and asked him to leave her there. Kenneth said nothing, but his face showed his disappointment at being hastened away by the same girl who less than half an hour before had almost been in his arms.
“Please don’t say anything, Ken,” she pleaded. “It was my fault—I shouldn’t have done what I did. I used to worship you when I was little, but I thought I had gotten over that—until tonight.”
Her voice sank almost to a whisper. In it was a note of trouble and perplexity. She went on:
“I—oh, Kenneth—what happened tonight must not be repeated.”
Puzzled and a bit hurt, he asked her what she meant.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Ken. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you for the world.”
“But what is it, Jane?” begged Kenneth. “I love you, Jane, have always loved you. I was blind—until tonight—”
Kenneth poured forth the words in a torrent of emotion. Whirling thoughts tore through his brain. He sought to seize Jane’s hand and draw her to him, but she eluded him.
“No—no—Kenneth, you mustn’t. I can’t let you make love to me. Let’s be friends, Ken, and enjoy these few days and forget all we’ve said tonight, won’t you, please?” she ended pleadingly.
Kenneth said nothing. He turned abruptly and strode away without even saying good night. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head hanging in disappointment and wounded pride, he hurried home without once turning to look back. …
Her ten days of vacation passed all too soon for Jane. She and Kenneth saw each other frequently, but never alone until the night before she returned to North Carolina. It was at a dance given in her honour. All evening he had been seeking a dance with her, but met with no success until the party was almost over. They danced in silence. Jane seemed suddenly sad. All evening she had been happy, gay, even flirtatious, but now that she was with Kenneth, her gaiety had been dropped like a mask. Halfway through the dance they came near a door that opened on a balcony overlooking a flower garden. Saying nothing to Jane, Kenneth danced her through the door and on to the balcony, where they sat on a bench that stood in the semidarkness. Though it was December, the air was warm. No sound disturbed the silence of the night save the music and voices which floated through the open door.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” Kenneth anxiously inquired, taking one of Jane’s hands in his.
“Nothing except this—I don’t know whether I care for you or not,” said Jane as she freed her hand and drew herself away. Her voice was firm and determined. Kenneth, ignorant of the ways of a maid with a man, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped dejectedly.
“What happened the other night was madness—I was very foolish for allowing it.” She paused, and then went on. “Kenneth, I don’t know, I want my music, I want to see something of life I want to live! I just can’t tie myself down by marrying—I don’t know whether I’ll ever want to. You’ll have to wait—if you care to—”
It was half command, half question. He said nothing.
He did not know how she longed for him to argue with her, override her objections, convince her against her will. She waited a full minute. Still he sat there silent. She rose and reentered the house, leaving him there alone.
VI
Life moved along evenly with Kenneth, busied with the multitude of duties with which the physician in the half-rural, half-urban towns of the South must deal. His days were filled with his blasto work and he was usually to be found in his office until ten or eleven o’clock every evening. Often he was roused in the middle of the night to attend some one of his patients. He did not mind this except when calls came to him from the outlying country districts. Not infrequently he made long trips of seven, eight, or ten miles into the country to treat some person who might just as well have called him during the previous day. He had purchased a Ford runabout in which he made these trips.
On a Sunday morning soon after his return to Central City, Kenneth with his mother, Mamie, and Bob attended the Mount Zion Baptist Church, but this he did without much eagerness, solely as a duty.
Though years had passed since last he entered the church, Kenneth noticed that it stood as it always had, save that it looked more down-at-heel than formerly. Before the door stood the same little groups, eagerly snatching a few words of conversation before entering. Near the door were ranged the
