The evening before she left found them perched upon the orchard stile, in
that stage of intimacy that permitted him to sit at her feet and toy
pensively with the tassel on her girdle while his eyes said the
unutterable things that his lips were forbidden to utter.
The sky was flooded with luminous color, neither blue nor pink, but
something deliciously between, and down below them fields of wheat
rippled under the magic light.
"We ought to go in," said Eleanor for the third time. "We've been out
here an outrageously long time."
"They won't miss us," pleaded Quin; "besides, it's our last night."
"Don't talk about it!" said Eleanor. "It makes me so cross to have to
leave it all at the most exciting time! When I get back everything will
be finished and the fun all over."
"When _are_ you coming back?"
"Not until September. We have to come home then. Something's going to
happen."
Quin stopped twisting the tassel and looked at her quickly.
"What?" he demanded.
"Can you keep a secret?"
"Yes."
"It's a wedding, Quin."
If the earth had suddenly quaked beneath him he could not have
experienced a more horrible sense of devastation.
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