“I told you how I felt,” she whispered back.

“You mean what you wrote?”

“Yes, what I wrote.”

“You don’t want me to tell at all?”

“Never, as long as you live.”

“How about her?”

“Gladys?”

“Yes, confound her!”

“She won’t tell.  She won’t dare to.”

Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again.  “Well,” he said, “I want to do what you want me to and what is honorable.  Of course, we are both young, and I haven’t any money except what father gives me, but I am willing to quit school to-morrow and go to work.  You needn’t think I mean to back out and show the white feather.  I am not that kind.  We have got into this, and I am ready and willing to do all I can.”

“I meant what I wrote,” whispered Maria again.  “I never want you to tell, and—­”

“And what?”

“I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak to me again.  I hate the very sight of you.”

“All right,” said the boy.  There was a slight echo of rancor in his own voice, still it was patient, with the patience of a man with a woman and her unreason.  All his temper of the night before had disappeared.  He was quite honest in saying that he wished to do what was right and honorable.  He was really much more of a man than he had been the day before.  He was conscious of not loving Maria—­his budding boy-love for her had been shocked out of life.  He was even repelled by her, but he had a strong sense of his duty towards her, and he was full of pity for her.  He saw how pale and nervous and frightened she was.  He got up to change his seat, but before he went, he leaned over her and whispered again:  “You need not be a mite afraid, Maria.  All I want is what will please you and what is right.  I will never tell, unless you ask me to.  You need not worry.  You had better put it all out of your mind.”

Maria nodded.  She felt very dizzy.  She was glad when Wollaston not only left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker.  She heard the door slam after him with a sense of relief.  She felt a great relief at his assurance that he would keep their secret.  Wollaston Lee was a boy whose promises had weight.  She looked out of the window and a little of her old-time peace seemed to descend upon her.  She saw how lovely the landscape was in the waning light.  She saw the new moon with a great star attendant, and reflected that it was over her right shoulder.  After all, youth is hard to down, and hope finds a rich soil in it.  Then, too, a temporization to one who is young means eternity.  If Wollaston did not tell, and Gladys did not tell, and she did not tell, it might all come right somehow in the end.