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 her, to draw her to him, to kiss her lips, but she held him back—with panic in her heart she pushed him away. “No, no,” she cried, “not now, not yet. I told you I didn’t love you…. I told you.”

He smiled. Happiness enough for one evening was his, and he could humor her whims. One expected strange whims from Lydia. “I won’t bother you, dear,” he said. “You’re—upset… I understand.”

“Be sure you do understand,” she said. Then she smiled wanly. “Come…. Let’s have it over with. Let’s tell the others. I want them to know.”

They walked toward the house, out upon the open lawn where the guests clustered. Here Lydia stopped and raised her face to the moonlight, and Malcolm saw how pale, set, desperate it was before she spoke—not at all as a young woman speaks who announces her engagement to assembled friends. “Boys and girls,” she said, fighting to speak lightly, gayly, “Malcolm and I have something to tell you. You are to be the first to hear about it…. He has asked me to marry him when he comes home next spring, and I have—” Her voice faltered an instant. “I have promised him I will.” She stopped, swayed slightly, and clutched at a chair for support…. But her face was smiling, and there were those