The Professor did not at once grasp the situation in so far as he himself was concerned. But he divined the cause of the lawyer's irritability, and refrained from pushing the argument further. The discussion could, indeed, serve no purpose, save to embitter the quarrel. He therefore answered quietly:
“I didn't come here to dispute with you. I came to see May. Is she in?”
“No, I think not. I believe she went out some time ago.”
“In that case I'll go home. Perhaps you'll tell her I called. Good day.”
“Good day!”
As the Professor left the house his depression of the morning returned upon him. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had intended to show no anger, no resentment, and, nevertheless, his temper had run away with him. He recognized that he had made a grave mistake, for he was beginning to foresee the consequences of it. Trained to severe thinking, but unaccustomed to analyze motives, the full comprehension of Hutchings' attitude and its probable effects upon his happiness only came to him gradually, but it came at length so completely that he could remember the very words of the foregoing conversation, and recall the tones of the voices. He could rebuild the puzzle; his understanding of it, therefore, must be the true one. The irrationality of the defence was a final proof that the lawyer had played him false. “Hutchings sold himself—most likely for place. He didn't fear a quarrel with me—that was evident; perhaps he wishes to get rid of me—evident, too. He believes that I shall be dismissed, or else he wouldn't have laid stress upon the importance of my keeping my position. When I spoke of May he was curt. And the explanation? He has wronged me. The old French proverb holds true, 'The offender seldom forgives.' He'll probably go on to harm me further, for I remind him of his vileness. This, then, is life, not as I imagined it, but as it is, and such creatures as Hutchings are human beings. Well, after all, it is better to know the truth than to cheat oneself with a mirage. I shall appreciate large natures with noble and generous impulses better, now that I know how rare they are.”
In his room he found May awaiting him. Across his surprise and joy there came an intense admiration of her, a heart-pang of passionate gratitude. As she moved towards him her incommunicable grace of person and manner completed the charm. The radiant gladness of the eyes; the outstretched hands; the graceful form, outlined in silver-grey; the diadem of honey-coloured hair; something delicate yet courageous, proud yet tender in her womanhood remained with him ever afterwards.
“Ah, May!” The word seemed to bring joy and tingling life to his half-numbed heart. He seized her hands and drew her to him, and kissed her on the hair, and brows, and eyes with an abandonment of his whole nature, such as she had never before known in him. All her shyness, her uneasiness vanished in the happiness of finding that she had so pleased him, and mingled with this joy was a new delightful sense of her own power. When released from his embrace she questioned him by a look. His emotion astonished her.
“My love,” he said, kissing her hands, “how good of you to come to me, how sweet and brave you are to wait for me here! I was growing weak with fear lest I should lose you, too, in the general wreck. And you came and sat here for me patiently—Darling!”
There was a mingling of self-surrender and ruffled pride in her smiling reproach: