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"Yes I mean you," replied he. "You mean you think I'm hindering him?" When Drumley's voice finally came, it was funereally solemn. "You are dragging him down. You are killing his ambition." "You don't understand," she protested with painful expression. "If you did, you wouldn't say that." "You mean because he is not true to you?" "Isn't he?" said she, loyally trying to pretend surprise.
One June evening Drumley came to take her to dinner at the Casino in Central Park. She hesitated. She still liked Drumley's mind; but latterly he had fallen into the way of gazing furtively, with a repulsive tremulousness of his loose eyelids, at her form and at her ankles especially at her ankles especially at her ankles. This furtive debauch gave her a shivery sense of intrusion.
The wooded ravine called the Den is in Thrums rather than on its western edge, but is so craftily hidden away that when within a stone's throw you may give up the search for it; it is also so deep that larks rise from the bottom and carol overhead, thinking themselves high in the heavens before they are on a level with Nether Drumley's farmland.
And thence she might have gone on to consider that Drumley's speeches sounded strangely like paraphrases of Spenser's eloquent outbursts when he "got going." But she had not a suspicion. Besides, her whole being was concentrated upon the idea Drumley was trying to put into words. She asked: "Why are you telling me?" "Because I love him," replied Drumley with feeling.
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