“My easiest excuse would be that I did not think you cared.”
“But,” she answered, “as we happen to be sensible people of the twentieth century, and as you know I cared, tell me your real reason.”
“Would work be a decent excuse?” he laughed.
“With anyone else but you, Mauney, it would do fine. But you must remember that I’ve only got three more weeks, perhaps, to stay in Lockwood.”
“But three weeks is a long time, too, Freda,” he said, seriously. “Just think how terribly much can happen in three weeks.”
“I suppose you’re thinking of history, are you?” she asked in a delicate tone of mockery.
“No, Freda,” he replied, quickly. “I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of you all the time, all this week. Please do me the honor to believe me.”
“Sorry,” she said, dropping her hand suddenly on his.
Her week of impatience quickly melted from her thoughts, and in the silence, as they sat so close together, she could have wept. Why had she used that little, mocking tone? If he could realize how she felt he would take her hand in his and not leave it just where she had dropped it. But there he sat looking away toward the river, so very self-contained.
“And I was going to tell you,” he said presently, “about the young people I’m teaching. I like them all right and I think they have unusual ability. But they have no enthusiasm, except a very few of them. I decided that I’d like to start a seminary for one of the classes where we could get right down to business and have open discussions. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”