He was one of those persons to whom the sunshine is becoming. In spite of his age and his exasperating silence and his shocking lack of curiosity, Miss Carter was obliged, in justice, to admit that she liked his face. It was honest and keen and strong. She remembered, too, that when he had talked about his ships he had been really interesting. Well, he wasn’t going to talk about ships this time. He had been brought here to be taught appreciation of Maude, and taught he should be.
“Your garden—” he began.
“Maude’s making a little rock garden,” Miss Carter said. “She had the prettiest violets this spring!”
“I like those bright-colored things that grow in the sun better,” said he, with a gesture toward the glowing bed of pinks and phlox and verbena. “My mother used to have those things in her garden.”
Miss Carter didn’t say that she was[Pg 289]n’t interested in his mother’s garden, but she looked it, and he seemed a little taken aback. He glanced at her anxiously. He felt that somehow he had said the wrong thing, and that he had better start another topic.
“I’m going up home next week,” he observed.
Miss Carter made no sort of reply to this. She could not. Going home, was he? Going away? She thought of Maude’s pale, grave young face, of the odd little note in her voice when she had said that she was afraid Mr. Rhodes didn’t think she was very interesting.
“He’s a—a selfish beast!” thought Miss Carter.
This thought, too, was reflected in her honest face, and Mr. Rhodes saw that once more he had said the wrong thing.
“You see,” he explained, still more anxiously, “I’m obliged to go there. My business—”