The height was dizzy. She had known well that if ever she gazed
down, it would be that. Her head swam with the giddiness of it. She
kept her eyes fixed rigidly on the plate before her, not daring to
look up, or meet his glance.
"Suppose you haven't taken too much for granted," he suggested
quietly.
"Well?" she raised her head--tried to look with unconcern into his
eyes--failed. Then her head dropped again.
"I should say--don't marry him--not yet--wait. The harm that is done
by waiting is measurable by inches. Wait. How old are you? Is that
rude? No--of course it isn't. It's only rude when a woman's got to
answer you with a lie. How old are you? Twenty?"
"Twenty-one."
"Twenty-one! I was fifteen when you first woke up and yelled."
She threw back her head and laughed.
"Why do you laugh?"
"You say such funny things sometimes."
"I remember the first joke I made you thought was bad taste."
She looked at him. There was excitement in her eyes. The rush of the
stream had taken her; an impulse for the moment carried her away.
"I repeated that joke afterwards," she said quickly, "the same
evening to shock Mr. Arthur."
The moment she had said it, came regret.
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