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!”