her
profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the
paddock that lay
brilliant in
sunshine on the skirts of the apple
orchard, she asked, in low, slow tones, twisting her hands in her
lap:
"Don't you think that perhaps, if B found out afterward--
when she had married A, you know--that she had cared for him so
very, very much, he might be a little sorry?"
"If he were a gentleman, he would regret it deeply."
"I mean--sorry on his own
account; that--that he had thrown away
all that, you know?"
The professor looked meditative.
"I think," he
pronounced, "that it is very possible he would. I
can well imagine it."
"He might never find anybody to love him like that again," she
said, gazing on the gleaming paddock.
"He probably would not," agreed the
philosopher.
"And--and most people like being loved, don't they?"
"To crave for love is an almost
universalinstinct, Miss May."
"Yes, almost," she said, with a
dreary little smile. "You see,
he'll get old and--and have no one to look after him."
"He will."
"And no home."
"Well, in a sense none," corrected the
philosopher, smiling.
"But really, you'll
frighten me. I'm a
bachelor myself, you
know, Miss May."
"Yes," she whispered just audibly.
"And all your terrors are before me."
"Well, unless----"
"Oh, we needn't have that `unless,'" laughed the
philosophercheerfully. "There's no `unless' about it, Miss May."
The girl jumped to her feet; for an
instant she looked at the
philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and, at the
thought of what lay at her tongue's tip, her face grew red. But
the
philosopher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm
contemplation on the gleaming paddock.
"A beautiful thing,
sunshine, to be sure," said he.
Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without
speaking she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping.
The
philosopher heard the
rustle of her skirt in the long grass
of the
orchard; he watched her for a few moments.
"A pretty,
graceful creature," said he, with a smile. Then he
opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a
careful
forefinger to mark the fly leaf.
The sun had passed mid-heaven, and began to decline westward
before he finished the book. Then he stretched himself and
looked at his watch.
"Good
gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!" and he
hurried to his feet.
He was very late for lunch.
"Everything's cold," wailed his
hostess. "Where have you been,
Mr. Jerningham?"
"Only in the
orchard--
reading."
"And you've missed May!"
"Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her
this morning--a most interesting talk."
"But you weren't here to say goodby. Now, you don't mean to say
that you forgot that she was leaving by the two o'clock
train? What a man you are!"
"Dear me! To think of my forgetting it!" said the
philosophershamefacedly.
"She told me to say good-by to you for her."
"She's very kind. I can't
forgive myself."
His
hostess looked at him for a moment; then she sighed, and
smiled, and sighed again.
"Have you everything you want?" she asked.
"Everything, thank you," said he, sitting down opposite the
cheese, and propping his book (he thought he would just run
through the last chapter again) against the loaf; "everything in
the world that I want, thanks."
His
hostess did not tell him that the girl had come in from the
apple
orchard, and run
hastilyupstairs lest her friend should
see what her friend did see in her eyes. So that he had no
suspicion at all that he had received an offer of marriage--and
refused it. And he did not refer to anything of that sort
when he paused once in his
reading and exclaimed:
"I'm really sorry I missed Miss May. That was an interesting