"Theresa! Theresa!"
"Basil," she said, "if you'll love me very much, I'll try to cultivate patience, though I look upon it as a sin. And I hate the intrusion of qualities that will make me different. That's not self-satisfaction—it's love of an old friend!"
He returned to his old thought. "Theresa, what have you been doing with yourself all these years? You talk like a child."
"I've been making up stories. That doesn't give you time to grow up. Does it matter? Shall I try to grow?" She looked at him with serious eyes, but there was a betraying twist to her lips. "My one anxiety is to oblige."
He made a gesture of deprecation, bewilderment and love, and she jumped up with an energy that spurned her foolishness.
"Let's get to work," she said. "Where are the plans?"
She was deft, alert and quick. He told her how his money was invested, and she nodded. On paper he showed her the extent of his land, pointed out the farms, told her of the tenants and what rent they paid, the fields and what crops they bore, he talked of woods and forestry, and she listened, making no comments, biding her time.
"You are wonderful, Theresa," he said. "You understand everything."
"Don't say that," she said gravely. "Why shouldn't I? Will you take me to see all these places and these people, especially the people? I want to talk to them."
He hesitated. "You will be discreet, won't you, darling? Don't misunderstand me——"