"Mr. Smith!" she said, flushing slightly.
"'Her eyes,' I quoted, 'were like the stars at even!'"
"You don't mean _my_ eyes, do you?"
I took a puff at my unlighted cigarette. It also smelled like recently
mown hay. I felt that I was slipping my cables and heading toward an
unknown and tempestuous sea.
"What time are you free, Mildred?" I asked, scarcely recognising my own
voice in such reckless apropos.
She shyly informed me.
I struck a match, relighted my cigarette, and took one puff. That was
sufficient: I was adrift. I realised it, trembled internally, took
another puff.
"If," said I carelessly, "on your way home you should chance to stroll
along the path beyond the path that leads to the path which--"