“Nonsense!” scorned Miss Maggie again. “Mr. Smith has always been fond of Mellicent, and—and interested in her. But I don’t believe he cares for her—that way.”
“Then why does he come to see her and take her auto-riding, and hang around her every minute he gets a chance?” snapped Jane. “I know how he acts at the house, and I hear he scarcely left her side at the tennis match the other day.”
“Yes, I—” Miss Maggie did not finish her sentence. A slow change came to her countenance. The flush receded, leaving her face a bit white.
“I wonder if the man really thinks he stands any chance,” spluttered Jane, ignoring Miss Maggie’s unfinished sentence. “Why, he’s worse than that Donald Gray. He not only hasn’t got the money, but he’s old, as well.”
“Yes, we’re all—getting old, Jane.” Miss Maggie tossed the words off lightly, and smiled as she uttered them. But after Mrs. Jane had gone, she went to the little mirror above the mantel and gazed at herself long and fixedly.
“Well, what if he does? It’s nothing to you, Maggie Duff!” she muttered under her breath. Then resolutely she turned away, picked up her work, and fell to sewing very fast.
Two days later Mellicent went back to school. Bessie went, too. Fred and Benny had already gone. To Miss Maggie things seemed to settle back into their old ways again then. With Mr. Smith she took drives and motor-rides, enjoying the crisp October air and the dancing sunlight on the reds and browns and yellows of the autumnal foliage. True, she used to wonder sometimes if the end always justified the means—it seemed an expensive business to hire an automobile to take them fifty miles and back, and all to verify a single date. And she could not help noticing that Mr. Smith appeared to have many dates that needed verifying—dates that were located in very diverse parts of the surrounding country. Miss Maggie also could not help noticing that Mr. Smith was getting very little new material for his Blaisdell book these days, though he still worked industriously over the old, re-tabulating, and recopying. She knew this, because she helped him do it—though she was careful to let him know that she recognized the names and dates as old acquaintances.
To tell the truth, Miss Maggie did not like to admit, even to herself, that Mr. Smith must be nearing the end of his task. She did not like to think of the house—after Mr. Smith should have gone. She told herself that he was just the sort of homey boarder that she liked, and she wished she might keep him indefinitely.
She thought so all the more when the long evenings of November brought a new pleasure; Mr. Smith fell into the way of bringing home books to read aloud; and she enjoyed that very much. They had long talks, too, over the books they read. In one there was an old man who fell in love with a young girl, and married her. Miss Maggie, as certain parts of this story were read, held her breath, and stole furtive glances into Mr. Smith’s face. When it was finished she contrived to question with careful casualness, as to his opinion of such a marriage.
Mr. Smith’s answer was prompt and unequivocal. He said he did not believe that such a marriage should take place, nor did he believe that in real life, it would result in happiness. Marriage should be between persons of similar age, tastes, and habits, he said very decidedly. And Miss Maggie blushed and said yes, yes, indeed! And that night, when Miss Maggie gazed at herself in the glass, she looked so happy—that she appeared to be almost as young as Mellicent herself!