Finally, the being who was born to attend at this tragedy said that she
wished to sit down and gaze at the sea, alone.
They politely urged her to walk on with them, but she was obstinate. She
wished to gaze at the sea, alone. The young man swore to himself that he
would be her friend until he died.
And so the two young lovers went on without her. They turned once to
look at her.
"Jennie's awful nice," said the girl.
"You bet she is," replied the young man, ardently.
They were silent for a little time.
At last the girl said--
"You were angry at me yesterday."
"No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were, too. You wouldn't look at me once all day."
"No, I wasn't angry. I was only putting on."
Though she had, of course, known it, this confession seemed to make her
very indignant. She flashed a resentful glance at him.
"Oh, you were, indeed?" she said with a great air.
For a few minutes she was so haughty with him that he loved her to
madness. And directly this poem, which stuck at his lips, came forth
lamely in fragments.
When they walked back toward the other girl and saw the patience of her
attitude, their hearts swelled in a patronizing and secondary tenderness
for her.
They were very happy. If they had been miserable they would have charged
this fairy scene of the night with a criminal heartlessness; but as they
were joyous, they vaguely wondered how the purple sea, the yellow stars,
the changing crowds under the electric lights could be so phlegmatic and
stolid.
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