He bowed and went so directly for his car that Freda half forgave him. He told her on the way home that his only regret over the incident was her displeasure. He hoped that she might soon give him some slight reason to be less unhappy than he was just then. If she could not in any case entertain his serious bid for love, he would gladly content himself with the consolation of her friendship. Would she not, at least, forgive him for to-night?
“I don’t know, Ted,” she replied, as he was about to leave her. “I didn’t like it one little bit.”
Nor did she.
In her room she engaged in an intense mood of self-despising, and anger and regret. Ah! She wanted Mauney’s arms just then. Her sense of guilt melted into one of weakness and dependence. In his strong, clean arms she would be at last peaceful and safe. She ought not to have gone with Courtney. That was plain. But she had promised. Now she would confess to Mauney and accept his chastisement with delicious satisfaction.
CHAPTER XII.
The St. Lawrence Hears a Dialogue.
The next evening Mauney called at MacDowell’s and had his first encounter with Freda’s father. He found him comfortably seated with a newspaper on the verandah. As Mauney approached, MacDowell’s sharp, black eye surveyed him over the corner of his journal. Then he removed his feet from the low wicker table.
“Good evening, sir,” he said politely, rising and extending his hand. “Come right up. I ought to have met you before, Mr. Bard,” he continued with a mischievous smile, “but better late than not at all. It’s warm, isn’t it? There’s a chair. I don’t know what’s going to happen if it doesn’t soon rain. We usually have a breath of air from the river here, but this last week, I’ve been sweltering.”
“And what has surprised me, Mr. MacDowell,” said Mauney, “is the general impression that Lockwood is such ‘a cool, breezy, summer resort.’”