"May I not call to-morrow to see you are none the worse for your accident? It is a long week since last I was at Summerleas. Would I bore you all very much if I allowed myself there again soon?"
"Not at all," I answered warmly, thinking of Dora; "the oftener you come the more we shall be pleased."
"Would it please you to see me often?" He watches me keenly as he asks this question.
"Yes, of course it would," I answer, politely, feeling slightly surprised at his tone—very slightly.
"How long have you known me?"
"Exactly a month yesterday," I exclaim, promptly; "it was on the 25th of August you first came to see us. I remember the date perfectly."
"Do you?" with pleased surprise. "What impressed that uninteresting date upon your memory?"
"Because it was on that day that Billy got home the new pigeons—such little beauties, all pure white. They were unlucky, however, as two of them died since. That is how I recollect its being a month," I continue, recurring to his former words.
"Oh! I suppose you would hardly care to remember anything in which Billy was not concerned. Sometimes—not always—I envy Billy. And so it is really only a month since first I saw you? To me it seems a year—more than a year."
"Ah! what did I tell you," I say, speaking in the eager tone one adopts when triumphantly proving the correctness of an early opinion. "I knew you would soon grow tired of us. I said so from the beginning."