"No, but because to me it is only a picture—one that shall have the chief place in the gallery of my memory. In a few days I shall be in my cheerless bachelor apartments, with nothing but a dusty register in the place of this home-like hearth."
"Come, Mr. Gregory, you are growing sentimental. I will go and see if supper is ready."
"Please stay, and I will talk of the multiplication table."
"No, that led to the 'Nebular Hypothesis.' You had better prepare for supper;" and she vanished.
"It's my fate," he said, rising, "to drive away every good and pleasant thing."
He went to the fire and stood where she had sat, and again thought was busy.
"She seems so real and substantial, and yet so intangible! Her defensive armor is perfect, and I cannot get near or touch her unless she permits it. The sincerest compliment glances off. Out of her kindness she helps me and does me good. She bewitches and sways me by her spells, but I might as well seek to imprison a spirit of the air as to gain any hold upon her. I wonder whom or what she was thinking of, that such dreamy, tender smiles should flit across her face."
How his face would have darkened with wrath and hate, if he had known that his detestation, Hunting, had inspired them!
The tea-bell reminded him how time was passing, and he went to his room with an elastic step that one would suppose impossible after seeing him in the morning. But, as is usual with nervous organizations, he sank or rallied rapidly in accordance with circumstances. When he appeared at the table, Mr. Walton could hardly believe his eyes.
"It is again the result of Miss Walton's witchcraft," explained Gregory. "The moment I felt her hand upon my brow, there came a sense of relief. In Italy they would make a saint of her, and bring out the sick for her to touch."