And, without waiting for her permission, he thrust the crutch under one arm, and insisted on supporting the unwilling girl with the other. And as they crossed the broad gravelled space to the portico, in the shade of the trees, Mabin felt a curious sensation of peace and of pleasure, and suddenly looked up at her companion with a frank smile.
“I’m very glad we’re friends again,” said she.
And he, smiling too, but with a little more malice, a little more guile, than she, answered readily:
“Why, so am I. But I must remind you that it is your fault, not mine, that we have ever been anything else.”
Mabin hung her head, feeling rather guilty, but with yet more enjoyment of the present reconciliation than remorse for the past estrangement. Instead of taking her straight in, Rudolph led her across the gravel to a flower-border, where, in a little open patch of sunlight, a rosebush grew. It was a “Mrs. John Lang,” and the huge pink blossoms were in their full beauty and fragrance.
“I’ve brought you here,” he said didactically, “to read you a moral lesson. Here we have a rose, full of beauty and sweetness to every one, but without any thorns. While some Roses I know——”
“Are all thorns to everybody, and are without any beauty,” finished Mabin for him, laughing, “and without any sweetness.”
“No, no, not at all. But they seldom let you come near enough to admire the beauty, and they are rather chary of their sweetness. Now I hope you’ll profit by this lesson.”
“To be sure I—shan’t!” replied Mabin with a rather doleful smile. “I do try to be less—less objectionable—sometimes,” she added with seriousness which made Rudolph smile. “But it doesn’t seem to be very successful. I think I’m going to give up the effort and accept the fate of ‘an awful example’ as serenely as I can.”
Rudolph tried not to let his smile grow too broad for politeness.