Her head drooped. "Ah, just for fun. You looked so lonesome like."
"Are you the girl that danced at the Firemen's Ball?"
Her chin went up and down.
"Well, you're a very forward girl. Let me tell you, you're not the sort of girl we need in Brancepeth. There is enough looseness here already. Everyone is talking of you—even the schoolboys—"
Delight had moved closer to him into the pale shaft of lamplight from the hall. He could only see her indistinctly, as the figure of a girl under water, her features pale, her eyes imploring. She seemed like a drowning girl. He suddenly imagined white limbs struggling in the water. He longed to save her. The rain dripped from the eaves like tears of pity for her. . . . He stepped out into the rain beside her.
"You called me," he said accusingly, yet something in his eyes caressed her.
"I felt sorry for ye," she breathed, and a delicious trembling seized her.
"I am to be pitied," he muttered, and drew her into his arms and kissed her. . . .
May was waiting at the corner, full of amused curiosity. "Whatever did he say? Was he very cross?"
"Yes, he was cross. But he got over it. He says he's to be pitied, poor man. I'm real sorry for him, May. He's stern, and yet, just like a little child. Ain't men the comical things? One minute they make you shake in your shoes and the next minute you could laugh in their face. Just the same a girl needs to be careful with them, May."
"Keep that idear planted in your 'ead, Delight, and I'll rest easier about yer."
"Lord, May, don't talk like that. One 'ud think you was going to die like Gran."
