neighbourhood?” he inquired, not without reason. “Now I want you to come home.”
“We were going walking,” Delia reminded him.
“You are coming home at once after this proceeding,” Delia’s father assured her. “No more words please, Delia.”
He disappeared from the window. Delia moved reluctantly across the street. As she went, she threw a resentful glance at Mary Elizabeth and me, each.
“I’m sorry, Delia!” we called softly in chorus. She made no reply. Mary Elizabeth and I were left staring at each other down our bell-rope, no longer taut, but limp, as we had left it earlier . . . Even in that stress, the unearthly sweet- ness of the morning smote me—the early sun, the early shadows. It all looked so exactly as if it had expected you not to be looking. This is the look of outdoors that, now, will most quickly take me back.
“It wouldn’t be fair to go walking without Delia,” said Mary Elizabeth, abruptly and positively.
“No,” I agreed, with equal decision. Then, “We might as well go back to bed,” I pursued the subject further.
“Let’s,” said Mary Elizabeth.
