As a matter of fact, Medora had quite forgotten the way she had been treated. For reasons far beyond her power to explain—since it was her quality to avoid directness at any cost—she ignored and put out of her mind the very harsh things Mr. Dingle had said. She banished them, and chose rather to dwell on what she regarded as the spirit and general essence created by their meeting. Detail might be dismissed, and it was very characteristic of Medora that when, presently, she met Jordan in the dinner hour, and took him up the valley, and rested her eyes on the spot beside the lake where she had listened to Mr. Dingle, she created a suggestion of that interview for the benefit of Kellock amazingly unlike the real thing.
The vatman ate his bread and cheese as he walked beside her and saw her on the way homeward to her own meal.
“When are you coming back?” he asked. “I’ve got the lecture dead right now, and I’d like to run it over once more. I’ve learned the typewriter myself too, and can give you a start and a beating at it.”
“It’s wonderful to me how you can fasten on a thing like that, while all my future hangs in the balance,” she said. “I’ve got a bit of startling news, Jordan. I ran on top of Mr. Dingle yesterday. I was just picking a bunch of flowers and wondering when something would happen when—there he was.”
“D’you mean he stopped you?”
“He did. I was shrinking past the man; but that wouldn’t do. He spoke, and I couldn’t believe my ears, for I’d got to think he was my black angel, naturally enough. But instead of anything like that, he let the dead past bury the past in a very gentlemanly manner.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, and I stood in a dream to hear his familiar voice, just friendly and kind.”
“‘Friendly and kind!’” exclaimed Kellock. “When was he ever friendly and kind to you?”
“Before—before we fell out. It was like going back to the old, old days, before he turned on me and drove me to you.”