“So am I; but it is all the time I have.”
“Oh, that doesn’t follow. And if you were to go away and stay till the edge has time to wear off—from what you have told me I fancy Dorothy will wait indefinitely.”
“She will; and we shall have to wait in any event; but that isn’t the point. When I go, if I go, I must carry with me the assurance that bygones will be bygones when I come back.”
“Doesn’t that smack a little of doing good that good may come?”
“Perhaps. You see that, notwithstanding your good opinion, there is nothing superhuman about me. But it is more than that, Ned. I mean to marry Dorothy some day, God willing, but it sha’n’t be until I have had it out with myself, nor even then without her mother’s fullest consent and approval. This last I am willing to try to earn, but I want some assurance that it is among the possibilities.”
Hobart followed out his own line of thought, and it presently led him back to the original proposition. “You will ‘gang yer ain gate,’ as you usually do, I suppose; but, as I remarked a minute ago, the time isn’t ripe. I have seen something of the family in the last few days—with my eyes open—and I can tell you pretty nearly how you stand. Dorothy would go to the stake for you, the judge would divide his ultimate dollar with you, Isabel worships you from afar, William the Curst swears by you, and Mrs. Langford—well, she doesn’t say much before me, as a matter of course, but it is as plain as the nose on your face that she has small use for you in spite of everything.”
“That is no more or less than I expected. None the less, I am going to see her—to-night.”
“Amen. I like your pluck, even if it is a bit like the zeal not according to knowledge that we read about. I shall be there—under the same ridgepole, at least. Is there anything I can do to help out?”
“Nothing; unless you will be charitable enough to stand by to pick up the pieces after she has demolished me. Shall we adjourn?—if you are through. I have some writing to do, likewise a bit of provisional packing.”