His friends—the nice friends who feel privileged to say nasty things—by reason of that fondness, professed to see in it a chance of his redemption. They admitted a possibility of his becoming humanized some day: said there was at least hope for him.
Beyond a Good Morning, and occasionally a remark on one of the tenses of the weather—past, present or future—the meetings were bare of conversation, so far as the adults were concerned.
Masters would have been more than glad to talk. Perhaps natural nervousness prevented his setting the conversational ball rolling. For he admired his companion of the seat with a fervent admiration—unable to label the feeling, as yet, by any other name.
Her presence did not disturb him now in his seclusion. She seemed to be in keeping with his thoughts. His thoughts of her harmonized with the surroundings—she belonged to them.
A vague sort of wonder took possession of him; how it was that he had never missed her—never known what was lacking. The more he saw of her, the more deep his admiration grew.
Admiration is the kind of thing which develops rapidly, once it germinates. In this instance the seed had thrown deep roots. Masters' heart seemed likely to prove fruitful soil.
With Gracie he stood well. That, he felt, was a making of headway; for the governess unquestionably loved her charge. On the principle of love me, love my dog, he was acting wisely—apart from the pleasure it gave him—in this cultivation of the little one's affection.
When the child discovered his ability to manufacture stories she instantly—the exacting nature of her sex in its dealings with man manifested itself even at that early age—demanded to be told one.
That was the introduction of the wedge's thin end: brought about a little change in the current of the elders' conversation. The lady in black came out of the ice-bound silence—fringed by a frigid Good Morning and Good Afternoon; saying:
"You must not let Gracie worry you."