"You called me a child."
"I should have called you an enigma."
I assured him I was not the least complex, and that I only wanted everything simple, and to be left in peace, without having to get married or worry to obey people.
We had a nice talk.
"You won't leave here on Saturday," he said, presently, apropos of nothing. "I do not think I shall go myself to-morrow. I want you to show me all over the gardens, and your favorite haunts."
"To-morrow I shall be busy packing," I said, gravely, "and I do not think I want to show you the gardens; there are some corners I rather loved; I believe it will hurt a little to say good-bye."
Just then Mr. Barton came into the room, fussy and ill at ease. Mr. Carruthers's face hardened again, and I rose to say good-night.
As he opened the door for me—"Promise you will come down to give me my coffee in the morning," he said.
"Qui vivra verra," I answered, and sauntered out into the hall. He followed me, and watched as I went up the staircase.
"Good-night!" I called, softly, as I got to the top, and laughed a little—I don't know why.