posure. She ran to cover now always at the slightest contact of Felix's scorching hand or foot—for still they scorched. He never held her wrists now, though sometimes they skated together.
One starlight night they had skated as far as the old ice-house. They had hobbled on their skates over the snow to an open gash in the side of the building, and peered in. But they had not gone in. He had not kissed her. He had never kissed her since that far-away afternoon at dusk. But he had murmured, standing very close behind her, 'I still think of it—every night, Sheilah.'
Instantly she had moved away.
'Come on, let's skate. I hate this spooky place.' She had laughed. So long as there was the shelter of careless good-comradeship for her to run to, she was not afraid of sunstroke.
When Felix had first appeared among the callers on Sunday afternoon, Dora had strongly objected. She had had a talk with Sheilah. With John Sheldon, too. But time had reassured Dora. By the second year of the war, Dora had concluded Felix was harmless. And but for the war Felix would have remained harmless. But for the thorough upheaval of Sheilah's straight, careful furrows of peace-time plans and resolves, her patriotism and pity and love would not have become so hopelessly confused, and her garden would have grown in rows.
