"
"You had better ask him his reasons, next time you see him," Roberta
suggested, and escaped.
It was two months since she had seen Richard Kendrick. He seemed never
so much as to pass the house, although it stood directly on his course
when he drove back and forth from Eastman in his car. She wondered if he
really did make a detour each time, to avoid the very chance of meeting
her. It was impossible not to think of him, rather disturbingly often,
and to wonder how he was getting on.
The month of March in the year of this tale was on the whole an
extraordinarily mild and springlike piece of substitution for the
rigorous, wind-swept season it should by all rights have been. On one
of its most beguiling days Roberta Gray was walking home from Miss
Copeland's school. Usually she came by way of the broad avenue which led
straight home. To-day, out of sheer unwillingness to reach that home and
end the walk, she took a quite different course. This led her up a
somewhat similar street, parallel to her own but several blocks beyond,
a street of more than ordinary attractiveness in that it was less of a
thoroughfare than any other of equal beauty in the residential portion
of the city.
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