“Don’t take this thing too seriously,” he said.
“But I want to take it seriously. You think I’m a child,—a butterfly. I assure you I am neither.”
“I think you’re adorable, whatever you are!” was on the tip of Gilbert Hepworth’s tongue; but he did not say it.
Though he cared more for Patty than for anything on earth, he had vowed to himself the girl should never know it. He was thirty-five, and Patty but eighteen, and he knew that was too great a discrepancy in years for him ever to hope to win her affections.
So he contented himself with an occasional evening call, or once in a while dropping in at tea time, resolved never to show to Patty herself the high regard he had for her.
She had told him of her various unsuccessful attempts at “earning her living,” and he deeply regretted that he had been the means of bringing about the situation.
He did not share Mr. Fairfield’s opinion that the experience was a good one for Patty, and would broaden her views of humanity in general, and teach her a few worth-while lessons.
“Please give up the notion,” he urged, after they had talked the matter over.
“Indeed I won’t,” returned Patty. “At least, not until I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that my theories are wrong. And I don’t think yet that they are. I still believe I can earn fifteen dollars a week, without having had special training for any work. Surely I ought to have time to prove myself right.”
“Yes, you ought to have time,” said Mr. Hepworth, gently, “but you ought not to do it at all. It’s an absurd proposition, the whole thing. And as I, unfortunately, brought it about, I want to ask you, please, to drop it.”