It was Miss Carter’s intention to greet this statement with an amused, indulgent smile; but she could not. There was something in the man’s straightforward glance, in his quiet voice, that filled her with confusion. She turned her head aside, feeling her cheeks grow hot.
“You don’t know what I’m really like, Mr. Rhodes,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” said he. “When I came this afternoon, you didn’t see me, at first, but I—I saw you.” His face had grown red, but he went on sturdily. “You—you don’t know how you looked, sitting there—in your own home!”
Miss Carter understood his speech only too well. She understood, by a sort of instinct, that he was one of those men who see all the romance and glamour of the world about the head of a woman in her own home. She understood, too, that he was very lonely and very homesick; and she made another mistake.
“Tell me about your home,” she said. “Your mother’s garden—”
He was silent for a moment.
“Well, you see,” he said, “when my father died, my elder brother got the old place; and he and his wife—well, they’ve made a good many changes.”
Miss Carter felt a sudden and most unreasonable indignation against Mr. Rhodes’s brother and sister-in-law.
“I hate changes!” she said. Then, feeling that she had been too vehement, she smiled. “That’s a sign of growing old,” she said. “I’m—”
“Old!” he cried. “You!”