She took a sweater from the hatrack. It belonged to one of the Skinners and was a bright scarlet. When Hildegarde put it on, it wrapped her like a flame.
Crispin said, "Some day, when you are happy, you must have a dress like that."
"I shall never be happy."
"Yes," he said, "you will. I shall make you happy."
The night, as they went out in it, was cold and clear. Sharp, white stars pierced the sky. Dry leaves rustled under their feet as they walked; the wind sighed in the bare branches.
When they came to the gate, Crispin took her hand and said, "I shall live on the thought of your letters."
"Shan't I see you before I go?"
"I shall come as often as I can. You know that."
"And—I haven't promised anything, Crispin."
"No. I don't need any promises. I know what I want and what I mean to have."
She was much stirred by the way he said it. For the first time she was meeting the mastery of a masculine mind. "You mustn't expect too much."
"No." His fingers tightened on. hers. "Hildegarde, let me kiss you. It won't tie you to anything. But it will make you remember that I—care."
She stood very still, then: "Crispin, it would tie me—I mustn't."
After everybody had gone that night, Hildegarde and her aunts talked for a long time. They told her many things the letter did not tell. There was some money, they said, in the bank. Not much, but a few hundreds. It had been her mother's share when the
