“I forgot, Enid, I have a secret to tell you.  Over in the timber claim the other day I started up a flock of quail.  They must be the only ones left in all this neighbourhood, and I doubt if they ever come out of the timber.  The bluegrass hasn’t been mowed in there for years,—­not since I first went away to school, and maybe they live on the grass seeds.  In summer, of course, there are mulberries.”

Enid wondered whether the birds could have learned enough about the world to stay hidden in the timber lot.  Claude was sure they had.

“Nobody ever goes near the place except Father; he stops there sometimes.  Maybe he has seen them and never said a word.  It would be just like him.”  He told them he had scattered shelled corn in the grass, so that the birds would not be tempted to fly over into Leonard Dawson’s cornfield.  “If Leonard saw them, he’d likely take a shot at them.”

“Why don’t you ask him not to?” Enid suggested.

Claude laughed.  “That would be asking a good deal.  When a bunch of quail rise out of a cornfield they’re a mighty tempting sight, if a man likes hunting.  We’ll have a picnic for you when you come out next summer, Gladys.  There are some pretty places over there in the timber.”

Gladys started up.  “Why, it’s night already!  It’s lovely here, but you must get me home, Enid.”

They found it dark inside.  Claude took Enid down the ladder and out to her car, and then went back for Gladys.  She was sitting on the floor at the top of the ladder.  Giving her his hand he helped her to rise.

“So you like my little house,” he said gratefully.

“Yes.  Oh, yes!” Her voice was full of feeling, but she did not exert herself to say more.  Claude descended in front of her to keep her from slipping.  She hung back while he led her through confusing doorways and helped her over the piles of laths that littered the floors.  At the edge of the gaping cellar entrance she stopped and leaned wearily on his arm for a moment.  She did not speak, but he understood that his new house made her sad; that she, too, had come to the place where she must turn out of the old path.  He longed to whisper to her and beg her not to marry his brother.  He lingered and hesitated, fumbling in the dark.  She had his own cursed kind of sensibility; she would expect too much from life and be disappointed.  He was reluctant to lead her out into the chilly evening without some word of entreaty.  He would willingly have prolonged their passage,—­ through many rooms and corridors.  Perhaps, had that been possible, the strength in him would have found what it was seeking; even in this short interval it had stirred and made itself felt, had uttered a confused appeal.  Claude was greatly surprised at himself.

XI