Cars rolled through the streets, the rear seats laden with blossoming
loot from the country lanes, and the Wheeler dog was again burying bones
in the soft warm ground under the hedge.
Elizabeth Wheeler was very happy. Her look of expectant waiting, once
vague, had crystallized now into definite form. She was waiting, timidly
and shyly but with infinite content. In time, everything would come.
And in the meantime there was to-day, and some time to-day a shabby car
would stop at the door, and there would be five minutes, or ten. And
then Dick would have to hurry to work, or back to David. After that, of
course, to-day was over, but there would always be to-morrow.
Now and then, at choir practice or at service, she saw Clare Rossiter.
But Clare was very cool to her, and never on any account sought her,
or spoke to her alone. She was rather unhappy about Clare, when she
remembered her. Because it must be so terrible to care for a man who
only said, when one spoke of Clare, "Oh, the tall blonde girl?"
Once or twice, too, she had found Clare's eyes on her, and they were
hostile eyes. It was almost as though they said: "I hate you because you
know. But don't dare to pity me."
Yet, somehow, Elizabeth found herself not entirely believing that
Clare's passion was real. Because the real thing you hid with all
your might, at least until you were sure it was wanted. After that,
of course, you could be so proud of it that you might become utterly
shameless. She was afraid sometimes that she was the sort to be utterly
shameless. Yet, for all her halcyon hours, there were little things that
worried her. Wallie Sayre, for instance, always having to be kept from
saying things she didn't want to hear. And Nina. She wasn't sure that
Nina was entirely happy. And, of course, there was Jim.
Jim was difficult. Sometimes he was a man, and then again he was a boy,
and one never knew just which he was going to be. He was too old for
discipline and too young to manage himself. He was spending almost all
his evenings away from home now, and her mother always drew an inaudible
sigh when he was spoken of.
Elizabeth had waited up for him one night, only a short time before, and
beckoning him into her room, had talked to him severely.
"You ought to be ashamed, Jim," she said. "You're simply worrying mother
sick."
"Well, why?" he demanded defiantly. "I'm old enough to take care of
myself."