“Well, at least don’t let us rush so,” the boy said. “This is a bully road. Remember where it goes to? Three miles of rolling country and then that farm-house where they have the buttermilk.” “Oh, my!” said Clarice, “I can’t go that far! There’s not time.” All of the things she said were true enough--and pardonable. Yet in her manner, she seemed making stock of these unfortunate contingencies. It was this that hurt Quincy. He resolved to try again. “Clarice dear,” he began, “if you knew why I’ve not seen you so much of late, you’d not be mad at me.” “Who said I was mad at you?” “Well--I meant--” “Sometimes, you’re too funny for words, Quincy Burt,” said the girl, serious as a sermon. “Oh--be quiet!” The boy rebelled at this suggestion of being laughed at, despite the lack of a particle of smile in her. “I’m glad you’re not mad. All I wanted to say was--was that--well--the reason I’ve seen you less is not that I like you less.” Clarice took this in silence. “Look here!” The boy turned to her roughly almost--and stopped walking. The girl, of course, stopped also. He was turned so that she faced him. And still, she was quiet. “Clarice, don’t you like me, too?” She met his face. It was very still and solemn. And the mouth quivered a bit, though he drew it close in order to control it. And the eyes were a very deep, piercing blue, indeed. It was the inevitable moment for seventeen girlish years to laugh. “What do you think--you silly? Would I have seen you so much--?” “Then, Clarice,” Quincy put his hands forward and broke in, so eager was he, “you _will_ see me, next winter?” Of course, Clarice drew back, bodily, from his onrush. And of course, her words symbolized her action. It was nothing more. “I shall be awful busy, Quint.” They stood in the middle of the road. It was long and green and silent. A great elm, its trunk choking in poison-ivy, leaned over them. The boy grasped her shoulders and drew her toward him. “Promise me, Clarice dear,--you’ll see me when I come to New York, next Christmas. Even with all the parties. Give me a kiss in promise.” Her face was directly under his. And her lips were smiling. With no effort, he kissed them. They were cool and soft and pricking. It was as if he had kissed a smile. How different from this granted kiss had been the stolen one, of Rhoda! But now, her face was a little flushed and the smile was gone--as if he had kissed it away. Clarice fell back a step. And Quincy spoke though a bubble of warmth kept rising in his throat. “That was a promise, Clarice?” The girl frowned. “It was nothing of the sort!” “Clarice!” he cried, in amazement. But still she was angry. Her face was first red, then almost grey. “I’m going home,” she said and turned away. Quincy reached for her fleeing waist and threw her back into his arms. “You shan’t behave that way, toward me!” “Shan’t I, though? Good-bye! You needn’t come along.” And once more she made a start.