"Copy of the Coroner's inquiry, after the murder," he said. "Thought it

might interest you..."

Then, for a time, that was all. Bassett, poring at home over the inquest

records, and finding them of engrossing interest, saw the futility of

saving a man who could not be found. And even Nina's faith, that the

fabulously rich could not die obscurely, began to fade as the summer

waned. She restored some of her favor to Wallie Sayre, and even listened

again to his alternating hopes and fears.

And by the end of September he felt that he had gained real headway with

Elizabeth. He had come to a point where she needed him more than she

realized, where the call in her of youth for youth, even in trouble, was

insistent. In return he felt his responsibility and responded to it. In

the vernacular of the town he had "settled down," and the general trend

of opinion, which had previously disapproved him, was now that Elizabeth

might do worse.

On a crisp night early in October he had brought her home from Nina's,

and because the moon was full they sat for a time on the steps of the

veranda, Wallie below her, stirring the dead leaves on the walk with his

stick, and looking up at her with boyish adoring eyes when she spoke.

He was never very articulate with her, and her trouble had given her a

strange new aloofness that almost frightened him. But that night, when

she shivered a little, he reached up and touched her hand.

"You're cold," he said almost roughly. He was sometimes rather savage,

for fear he might be tender.

"I'm not cold. I think it's the dead leaves."

"Dead leaves?" he repeated, puzzled. "You're a queer girl, Elizabeth.

Why dead leaves?"

"I hate the fall. It's the death of the year."

"Nonsense. It's going to bed for a long winter's nap. That's all. I'll

bring you a wrap."

He went in, and came out in a moment with her father's overcoat.

"Here," he said peremptorily, "put this on. I'm not going to be called

on the carpet for giving you a sniffle."

She stood up obediently and he put the big coat around her. Then,

obeying an irresistible impulse, he caught her to him. He released her

immediately, however, and stepped back.

"I love you so," he stammered. "I'm sorry. I'll not do it again."

She was startled, but not angry.

"I don't like it," was all she said. And because she did not want him to

think she was angry, she sat down again. But the boy was shaken. He got

out a cigarette and lighted it, his hands trembling. He could not think

of anything to say. It was as though by that one act he had cut a bridge

behind him and on the other side lay all the platitudes, the small give

and take of their hours together. What to her was a regrettable incident

was to him a great dramatic climax. Boylike, he refused to recognize its

unimportance to her. He wanted to talk about it.




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