III
Mrs. Mahon and Gilligan had resumed their old status of companionship and quiet pleasure in each other’s company. Now that he no longer hoped to marry her she could be freer with him.
“Perhaps this is what we needed, Joe. Anyway, I never knew anyone I liked half this much.”
They walked slowly in the garden along the avenue of roses which passed beneath the two oaks, beyond which, against a wall, poplars in a restless formal row were like columns of a temple.
“You’re easy pleased then,” Gilligan answered with sour assumed moroseness. He didn’t have to tell her how much he liked her.
“Poor Joe,” she said. “Cigarette, please.”
“Poor you,” he retorted, giving her one. “I’m all right. I ain’t married.”
“You can’t escape forever, though. You are too nice:—safe for the family: will stand hitched.”
“Is that a bargain?” he asked.
“Sufficient unto the day, Joe. …”
After a while he stayed her with his hand. “Listen.” They halted and she stared at him intently.
“What?”
“There’s that damn mockingbird again. Hear him? What’s he got to sing about, you reckon?”
“He’s got plenty to sing about. April’s got to be May, and still spring isn’t half over. Listen. …”