“You are very kind,” he answered, “I was afraid that even to-day might be too soon. But Sherry Trimm says that when he is in doubt he plays trumps—and so I came.”
“Not at all too soon,” suggested Constance.
“The calculation is very simple. A visit once a fortnight would make twenty-six visits a year with a fraction more in leap year, would it not? Does not that appal you?”
“I have not a mathematical mind, and I do not look so far ahead. Besides, if we are away for six months in the summer, you would not make so many.”
“I forgot that everybody does not stay in town the whole year. I suppose you will go abroad again?”
“Not this year,” answered Miss Fearing rather sadly.
George glanced at her face and then looked quickly away. He understood her tone, and it seemed natural enough that the fresh recollection of her mother’s death should for some time prevent both the sisters from returning to Europe. He could not help wondering how much real sorrow lay behind the young girl’s sadness, though he was somewhat astonished to find himself engaged in such an odd psychological calculation. He did not readily believe evil of any one, and yet he found it hard to believe much absolute good. Possibly he may have inherited something of this un-trustfulness from his father, and there was a side in his own character which abhorred it. For a few moments there was silence between the two. George sitting in his upright chair and bending forward, gazing stupidly at his own hands clasped upon his knee, while Constance Fearing leaned far back in her deep easy-chair watching his dark profile against the bright light of the window.
“Do you like people, Miss Fearing?” George asked rather suddenly.
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, is your first impulse, about people you meet for the first time, to trust them, or not?”