“I’m sure of that now,” he returned confidently.
“You’ve made good use of your time,” was all she said.
His words, the ring in his young voice, called up a mental picture of a strong clear-cut face looking up at her in the uncertain light of a moonlit night in May. She felt that somehow Bobby had outdistanced her.
“Here we are,” she exclaimed abruptly, “you and I, mooning, as we’ve mooned for years whenever the vacation came round. When we were children we mooned along and talked of splendid things—the things we meant to do, the positions we could create for ourselves in a world that was open and defenceless to our attacks; and now we moon sentimentally and talk of love instead.”
“But that’s splendid too,” he affirmed with young enthusiasm.
“Is it? ... I wonder. I think perhaps it’s just a little disappointing also... moonshine, like the rest.”
“Rot!” said Bobby elegantly. “Something’s changed you, Prue—or some one... Which?”
“The curate perhaps,” Prudence returned flippantly. “Marriage with him would not be moonshine exactly, but it would be a trifle dull—just the distractions which the parish offered, and on Sundays his sermons to listen to.”
“There would be stimulation in the way of jealousy,” Bobby suggested helpfully. “Think of all those women who work braces for him and lounge slippers. You’d have to compete, you know.”
“They cease all that when the curates marry,” Prudence returned with disgust. “If they only kept it up there would be some excitement offering; but they don’t.”