“There’s such a lovely girl next door—­I’ve heard—­”

“What have you heard?”

Sally did not seem to be willing to tell.

“It makes no difference what you’ve heard.  Ask her herself what we’ve talked of most.  But, Sally—­how long before I may see round another corner?”

She hesitated.  “I don’t know.  Not—­this year, please.”

“Not this year!  Well—­I certainly shall have to cultivate patience.  But I will—­if I must.  When—?”

Her lips twitched a little.  It was the girl he had known a long time who answered:  “When the first strawberries go to market—­from Strawberry Acres!”

“Shades of Job!  A year from this June?  And till then I must walk on neutral ground?”

It was harder to resist him—­harder to put him off—­than she had thought it would be.  But she had made up her mind—­and when Sally Lane did that she could not be easily swayed from her purpose.

“You’ve seen around the corner,” she murmured.  “You promised to be content with that.”

“Not content—­patient—­if I can.  I will be.  Thank you for that much.”

He reluctantly let her draw away her hand, and she came down the two steps, passed him, and led the way toward the living-room door.  With her hand on the knob he stopped her.

“Sally—­”

“Yes—­”

“I can’t help liking the look of the lane—­beyond the corner!”

Laughing and blushing more brilliantly than before—­which was rather superfluous—­Sally threw open the door, regardless of the fact that Joanna, who possessed a pair of very good eyes, was awaiting her in the room beyond.  But there is such a thing as dazzling people’s eyesight so that they cannot judge perfectly of what they see, and this effect Joanna’s mistress immediately proceeded to produce.  For the following hour, between raptures over being at home, tales of her Southern experiences—­told so vividly that her listeners seemed to see them for themselves—­eager questionings of the home stayers, there was small chance for anybody to put a finger upon exactly what Miss Sally Lane’s inmost thoughts might be.

Then, quite unexpectedly, a quarter hour earlier than it had been supposed possible, the tramp of feet was heard upon the porch.  Sally flew toward the hall—­then flew back again, leaving the door closed, and standing still and breathless upon the hearth-rug, in the full light of the fire.  Voices were heard in the hall, and the rattle of umbrellas in the rack.

“Plaguey poor play,” Max was complaining.  “Rather stay by the fire any night than poke to town to bore myself like that.  I don’t think—­”

He flung open the door.  Behind him Alec’s voice was saying:  “I’m as wet as a rat.  You fellows had the big umbrella.  The little one isn’t big enough to—­”