“Oh, but you ought to be mad. I am. How can you—”
“Let us talk, dear, of what concerns us more. Have you heard anything? From what your father said I half fear that the meeting to-morrow may go against me. Has no one called?”
“Professor Krazinski. I saw his card on the table when I came in. You think it's a bad sign that he's the only one?”
“I'm afraid so. It may be merely anxiety, but I'm growing suspicious of every one now. I catch myself attributing low motives to men without reason. That electioneering has infected me. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it; I loathe the self-seeking and the vileness. I'd rather not know men at all than see them as they've shown themselves lately. I want to get away and rinse my mouth out and forget all about it—away somewhere with you, my sweet love.”
“But you mustn't let them condemn you without an effort.” While speaking she put her hand on his shoulder and moved close to him. “It might injure us later. And you know you can persuade them if you like. No one can listen to you without being won over. And I want you to keep your post; you love teaching and you're the best teacher in the world, ah—”
He put his arms round her, and she bowed her head on his neck, that he might not see the gathering tears.
“You're right, dear. I spoke hastily. I'll do my best. It won't be as bad as we think. My colleagues are men of some education and position. They're not like the crowd of ignorant voters and greedy place-hunters; they'll listen to reason, and “—half bitterly—“they've no motive to do me wrong. Besides, Krazinksi has called, and I scarcely know him; perhaps the others didn't think of coming. It was kind of him, wasn't it? I'm very grateful to him. He must be a good fellow.”
“What has he done so wonderful? Oh, my!”—and she turned her face up to his with half-laughing deprecation—“I'm afraid I'm deteriorating too. I can't hear you praise any one now without feeling horribly jealous. Yes, he must be good. But don't be too grateful to him, or—I must be going now, and, oh! what a long time it'll be until to-morrow! I shall have grown old before—to-morrow.”
“Sweetheart! You'll come here and wait for me in the afternoon, won't you? I shall want to see you so much.”
“Yes, if you like; but I intended to go up to the University—mayn't I? It'll seem ages—aeons—waiting here by myself.”