“You did?” cried the girl.
“Don’t be silly, please. … Yes, I did. I told him I’d be at his service when I came back to London. Not to have done that would have been cowardly and absurd. I owe him that.”
“Laurie, I wish you wouldn’t,” said the girl pleadingly.
He sat up a little, disturbed by this very unusual air of hers.
“But if it’s all such nonsense,” he said, “what’s there to be afraid of?”
“It’s—it’s morbid,” said Maggie, “morbid and horrible. Of course it’s nonsense; but it’s—it’s wicked nonsense.”
Laurie flushed a little.
“You’re polite,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she said penitently. “But you know, really—”
The boy suddenly blazed up a little.
“You seem to think I’ve got no heart,” he cried. “Suppose it was true—suppose really and truly Amy was here, and—”
A sudden clear sharp sound like the crack of a whip sounded from the corner of the room.
Even Maggie started and glanced at the boy. He was dead white on the instant; his lips were trembling.
“What was that?” he whispered sharp and loud.
“Just the woodwork,” she said tranquilly; “the thaw has set in tonight.”
Laurie looked at her; his lips still moved nervously.