"Well, I'll scold him tonight. You stay here and rest. I am going
to drive Gladys home."
Gladys protested, but at last consented that they should both
drive her home in Claude's car. They lingered awhile, however,
listening to the soft, amiable bubbling of the spring; a wise,
unobtrusive voice, murmuring night and day, continually telling
the truth to people who could not understand it.
When they went back to the house Enid stopped long enough to cut
a bunch of heliotrope for Mrs. Farmer,--though with the sinking
of the sun its rich perfume had already vanished. They left
Gladys and her flowers and cresses at the gate of the white
cottage, now half hidden by gaudy trumpet vines.
Claude turned his car and went back along the dim, twilight road
with Enid. "I usually like to see Gladys, but when I found her
with you this afternoon, I was terribly disappointed for a
minute. I'd just been talking with your father, and I wanted to
come straight to you. Do you think you could marry me, Enid?"
"I don't believe it would be for the best, Claude." She spoke
sadly.