“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Rosscott laughing, and then she turned as if to go in.
“Oh, don’t,” said her lover, barring the way with great suddenness; “you really mustn’t, you know. I’ve been patient for so long and been good for so long and I must be rewarded—I really must. Do come out with me somewhere—anywhere—for only a half-hour,—please.”
She looked at him.
“Won’t Maude do?” she asked.
“No, she won’t,” he said beneath his breath; “whatever do you suggest such a thing for? You make me ready to tell you to your face that you want to go as bad as I want you to go, but I shan’t say so because I know too much.”
“You do know a lot, don’t you?” said she, with an expression of great respect; “why, if you were to dare to hint to me that I wanted to go out with you instead of staying in and talking Rembrandt with Mr. Morley, I’d never forgive you the longest day I live.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” said he, “and you may be quite sure that I shall not say it. On the contrary I shall merely implore you to forget your own pleasure in consideration of mine.”
“I really ought to devote the morning to Mr. Morley,” she said meditatively; “it’s such an honor his coming here, you know.”
“A little bit of a whiskered monkey,” said Jack in great disgust; “an honor, indeed!”
“He’s a very great man,” said Mrs. Rosscott; “every sort of institution has given him a few letters to put after his name, and some have given him whole syllables.”