“You shouldn’t have made the torch out of the old oak.”
He gazed at her in amazement.
“Who told you that about the oak door?” he asked.
“No one; only it occurred to me that there must have been something of that sort going on in the course of the proceedings. I have heard that you may do anything you please at Oxford if you only keep good hours and respect the oak. Here comes your machine. The chauffeur quite bore out the character you gave him; but I shall feel that I did something to help him by taking you out of his way.”
“Confound him! he’s just a bit too quick,” said Mr. Wingfield. “We’ve got a lot more to say, haven’t we?”
“You must say it to the chauffeur,” she said.
“No; I’ll send him home with the machine and you’ll let me walk up the hill with you.”
“Not to-day, please. Good-bye. I am very glad that we met. I have got rid of my gloomiest thoughts. I knew that what I wanted was a chat with some one who was—was—like you—some one not just like the rest of the world—some one who was a rigid purist in the matter of pronunciation—some one who had gained distinction as a painter.”
“Oh, I say; you must forget that business. I’m not proud of it now. As a matter of fact I can recollect very little that I have a reason to be proud of.”
“Good-bye. You maybe proud of having pulled a poor girl out of the black depths of her own reflections.”