“Not in the least, Miss Fearing,” said the pale young man with alacrity. He was thinking that for the sake of conversing a quarter of an hour with such an exceedingly amiable young lady, he would put himself to vastly more trouble than was involved in stopping at Washington Square on his way up town in the afternoon.
“Thank you. You are so kind. Good-bye, Mr. Johnson.” She held out her hand, but Johnson seized his hat and prepared to accompany her.
“Let me take you to the Elevated, Miss Fearing,” he said.
“Thank you very much, but I have a carriage downstairs,” said Constance. “If you would show me the way—it is so very complicated.”
“Certainly, Miss Fearing.”
Constance wondered why he repeated her name so often, whether it was a habit he had, or whether he was nervous, or whether he thought it good manners. She was not so much impressed with him at first sight as she had expected to be. He had not said anything at all clever, though it was true that there had not been many opportunities for wit in the conversation that had taken place. He belonged to a type with which she was not familiar, and she could not help asking herself whether George had other friends like him, who, if she knew them, would call her by her name half a dozen times in three minutes, and if he had many of them whether, in the event of her marrying him, she would be expected to know them all and to like them for his sake. Not that there was anything common or vulgar about this Johnson whom George praised so much. He spoke quietly, without any especial accent, and quite without affectation. He was dressed with perfect simplicity and good taste, there was nothing awkward in his manner—indeed Constance vaguely wished that he might have shown some little awkwardness or shyness. He was evidently a man of the highest education, and George said he was a man of the highest intelligence, but as Constance gave him her hand and he closed the door of the brougham, the impression came over her with startling vividness, that Mr. Johnson was emphatically not a man she would ask to dinner. She felt sure that if she met him in society she should feel a vague surprise at his being there, though she might find it impossible to say why he should not. On the other hand, though she was aware that she put herself in his power to some extent, since it was impossible that he should not guess that her interest in George Wood was the result of something at least a little stronger than ordinary friendship, yet she very much preferred to trust this stranger rather than to confide in any of the men she knew in society, not excepting John Bond himself.
At five o’clock on the day agreed upon, Constance was informed that “a gentleman, a Mr. Johnson,” had called, saying that he came by appointment.
“You are so kind,” said Constance, as he sat down opposite to her. He held the manuscript in his hand. “And what do you think of it? Am I not right?”
“I am very much surprised,” said the pale young man. “It is a remarkable book, Miss Fearing, and it ought to be published at once.”
Constance had felt sure of the answer, but she blushed with pleasure, a fact which did not escape Johnson’s quiet scrutiny.