"Perhaps-per-per--" Her apprehensions became more and more poignant; her eyes seemed fixed upon some incredible disaster; she appeared to inflate while the catastrophe she foresaw became more and more imminent. All at once she collapsed, but the power decorum had over her was attested by the mildness of her sneeze after so threatening a prelude.
"Perhaps I'd better put one of the windows down," Mr. Blakely suggested.
"Both, I believe," said Margaret. "The room has cooled off, now, I think."
Mr. Blakely closed the windows, and, returning to a chair near Margaret, did his share in the production of another long period of quiet. Penrod allowed this one to pass without any vocal disturbance on his part. It may be, however, that his gaze was disturbing to Mr. Blakely, upon whose person it was glassily fixed with a self-forgetfulness that was almost morbid.
"Didn't you enjoy the last meeting of the Cotillion Club?"
Margaret said finally.
And upon Mr. Blakely's answering absently in the affirmative, she suddenly began to be talkative. He seemed to catch a meaning in her fluency, and followed her lead, a conversation ensuing which at first had all the outward signs of eagerness. They talked with warm interest of people and events unknown to Penrod; they laughed enthusiastically about things beyond his ken; they appeared to have arranged a perfect way to enjoy themselves, no matter whether he was with them or elsewhere but presently their briskness began to slacken; the appearance of interest became perfunctory. Within ten minutes the few last scattering semblances of gayety had passed, and they lapsed into the longest and most profound of all their silences indoors that day. Its effect upon Penrod was to make him yawn and settle himself in his chair.
Then Mr. Blakely, coming to the surface out of deep inward communings, snapped his finger against the palm of his hand impulsively.
"By George!" he exclaimed, under his breath.
"What is it?" Margaret asked. "Did you remember something?"
"No, it's nothing," he said. "Nothing at all. But, by the way, it seems a pity for you to be missing the fine weather. I wonder if I could persuade you to take a little walk?"
Margaret, somewhat to the surprise of both the gentlemen present, looked uncertain.
"I don't know " she said.
Mr. Blakely saw that she missed his point.
"One can talk better in the open, don't you think?" he urged, with a significant glance toward Penrod.
Margaret also glanced keenly at Penrod. "Well, perhaps." And then, "I'll get my hat," she said.
Penrod was on his feet before she left the room. He stretched himself.
"I'll get mine, too," he said.
But he carefully went to find it in a direction different from that taken by his sister, and he joined her and her escort not till they were at the front door, whither Mr. Blakely--with a last flickering of hope had urged a flight in haste.
"I been thinkin' of takin' a walk, all afternoon," said Penrod pompously. "Don't matter to me which way we go."
The exquisite oval of Mr. Claude Blakely's face merged into outlines more rugged than usual; the conformation of his jaw became perceptible, and it could be seen that he had conceived an idea which was crystallizing into a determination.
"I believe it happens that this is our first walk together," he said to Margaret, as they reached the pavement, "but, from the kind of tennis you play, I judge that you could go a pretty good gait. Do you like walking fast?"
She nodded. "For exercise."
"Shall we try it then?"
"You set the pace," said Margaret. "I think I can keep up."
He took her at her word, and the amazing briskness of their start seemed a little sinister to Penrod, though he was convinced that he could do anything that Margaret could do, and also that neither she nor her comely friend could sustain such a speed for long. On the contrary, they actually increased it with each fleeting block they covered.
"Here!" he panted, when they had thus put something more than a half-mile behind them. "There isn't anybody has to have a doctor, I guess! What's the use our walkin' so fast?"
In truth, Penrod was not walking, for his shorter legs permitted no actual walking at such a speed; his gait was a half-trot.
"Oh, WE'RE out for a WALK!" Mr. Blakely returned, a note of gayety beginning to sound in his voice. "Marg--ah--Miss Schofield, keep your head up and breathe through your nose.
That's it! You'll find I was right in suggesting this. It's going to turn out gloriously! Now, let's make it a little faster."
Margaret murmured inarticulately, for she would not waste her breath in a more coherent reply. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were brimming with the wind, but when she looked at Penrod, they were brimming with something more. Gurgling sounds came from her.
Penrod's expression had become grim. He offered no second protest, mainly because he, likewise, would not waste his breath, and if he would, he could not. Of breath in the ordinary sense breath, breathed automatically--he had none. He had only gasps to feed his straining lungs, and his half-trot, which had long since become a trot, was changed for a lope when Mr. Blakely reached his own best burst of speed.
