Miss Selby looked at him with a sort of horror. Was that his idea of spring—violets being sold on street corners?
“But that doesn’t mean anything!” she cried. “They were probably hothouse violets, anyway. You can’t possibly see the real spring unless you go in the woods.”
She needn’t think she owned the spring. Every year of his life he had spent several weeks in the country at various hotels. He had seen any number of woods, had walked in them, and admired them, too, with moderation, however.
“Yes, I know,” he admitted. “Last June I motored up through Connecticut—”
“Oh, but that’s different!” she explained. “Motoring—that’s not the same thing at all! There’s a little wood near here—I go there almost every Sunday—I wish you could see it!”
“I’d like to,” he replied, without realizing the step implied.
They were both dismayed by what had happened. Miss Selby arose hastily.
“Well—good night!” she said, and fled upstairs to her room in a panic.
“Heavens!” she thought. “Did he think I wanted him to come with me to-morrow? Oh, dear! How—how awfully awkward! Oh, I do hope it will rain!”
Mr. Anderson, left by himself, lit his pipe.