"I wonder," he says, after they have talked away the genial spring afternoon, "when I shall see you again,—when I may present my little gift. Your brother and I are not cordial friends. I offered him some advice in the beginning, as an elder might reasonably give to an inexperienced person, which he resented quite indignantly, and he prefers to use his own wisdom. I am not quarrelsome, and so we are comfortable business compeers, but hardly calling friends, and since you are in his house I must deny myself the pleasure. Do you not sometimes go to walk? I know you drive a good deal."
She catches the cue, and her heart bounds.
"I do go out to sketch," she says, with admirable modesty.
"Ah, that would be an enjoyment. Will you allow me to come?"
There is a most flattering entreaty in his tone.
Marcia considers. Violet and Cecil are forever rambling round, and she knows how easily an interview can be spoiled. It will hardly be safe to appoint one between here and Grandon Park. Down below the park there is a little cove, with a splendid view opposite, and a grove of trees for protection. She will appoint it here. Friday is unlucky. Saturday will be busy for him, so it is settled for Monday of the next week, and he agrees, with a peculiar smile and a pressure of the hand.
Marcia Grandon walks home in a state of triumph. Experience forbids her to count upon this man as a positive lover, but he is an admirer. They have a disagreeable habit of going so far and then taking wing. Marriage seems an event rather difficult of accomplishment, for with all Marcia's flighty romance she shrinks from encountering actual poverty, but it might be this man's admiration is sufficiently strong to lead him beyond the debatable land. She hesitates just a little, then solaces herself with the improbability.
Still, she is in a flutter of excitement when she goes up to her room after luncheon. What shall she wear? Bonnets and hats are tried on, and she passes and repasses before the glass to study the jauntiness or attractiveness of different styles. Her dress is gray, and she finally settles upon a light gray chip, with two long black plumes that almost touch her shoulder. A cluster of pansies would be very effective at her throat. Violet wears them a good deal, so she selects the finest in the greenhouse, and takes a parasol with a lilac lining. She does look very well. Before mourning, her taste was rather bizarre, but it has been toned down somewhat.
Jasper Wilmarth is first on the spot. She has dallied so long with toilet questions, that it has given the man's complacency a little start, no bad thing. She catches a glimpse of him and is filled with trepidation, for up to this moment she has not been quite sure but he would allow something to prevent.
He takes both hands. The consciousness goes over her that he is a lover. He is not a handsome man, with his high shoulders, short neck, and rugged face, but to-day he has taken some pains, and lets his steely eyes soften, his lips show their bit of red under the gray mustache. His necktie is fresh, his clothes have been brushed, and if the soul animating the man was even as good as the body it would be better for all who come in contact with him.