He turned back to the fly-leaf and began to nail the last fallacy a little tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him, first with amused impatience, then with a vexed frown, finally with a wistful regret. He was so very old for his age, she thought; he could not be much beyond thirty; his hair was thick and full of waves, his eyes bright and clear, his complexion not yet divested of all youth’s relics.
“Now, Miss May, I’m at your service,” said the philosopher, with a lingering look at his impaled fallacy; and he closed the book, keeping it, however, on his knee.
The girl sat down just opposite to him.
“It’s a very important thing I want to ask you,” she began, tugging at a tuft of grass, “and it’s very—difficult, and you mustn’t tell any one I asked you; at least, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I shall not speak of it; indeed, I shall probably not remember it,” said the philosopher.
“And you mustn’t look at me, please, while I’m asking you.”
“I don’t think I was looking at you, but if I was I beg your pardon,” said the philosopher, apologetically.
She pulled the tuft of grass right out of the ground, and flung it from her with all her force.
“Suppose a man—” she began. “No, that’s not right.”
“You can take any hypothesis you please,” observed the philosopher, “but you must verify it afterward, of course.”