One day, when June was coming to its end, Laura James said to him:
“I shall have to go home next week.” Then, seeing his stricken face, she added, “but only for a few days—not more than a week.”
“But why? The summer’s only started. You will burn up down there.”
“Yes. It’s silly, I know. But my people expect me for the Fourth of July. You know, we have an enormous family—hundred of aunts, cousins, and in-laws. We have a family re-union every year—a great barbecue and picnic. I hate it. But they’d never forgive me if I didn’t come.”
Frightened, he looked at her for a moment.
“Laura! You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Be quiet.”
He was trembling violently; he was afraid to question her more closely.
“Be quiet,” she whispered, “quiet!” She put her arms around him.
He went with her to the station on a hot mid-afternoon. There was a smell of melted tar in the streets. She held his hand beside her in the rattling trolley, squeezing his fingers to give him comfort, and whispering from time to time:
“In a week! Only a week, dear.”
“I don’t see the need,” he muttered. “It’s over 400 miles. Just for a few days.”
He passed the old one-legged gateman on the station platform very easily, carrying her baggage. Then he sat beside her in the close green heat of the pullman until the train should go. A little electric fan droned uselessly above the aisle; a prim young lady whom he knew, arranged herself amid the bright new leather of her bags. She returned his greeting elegantly, with a
