But the male protectorship, he should have known well, scarcely thrived in this atmosphere. Mary tied a package of papers, gave him a look and smile, and dropped it efficiently into the suitcase at her feet.
"Well, that's on the knees of the gods as yet. Meanwhile—there's no use crying over spilt milk."
"My point is, don't you see, this milk shan't stay spilt! I'm not going to wait till May to have you back here."
It was on the tip of his tongue to confide to her then, for her comfort, the third plan he had for her, a plan more circuitous and elaborate than either of his others, but yet, given time, his personal favorite from the beginning. However, Mary's little laugh checked him. The laugh may have been the best cover she had for feelings deeply bruised, after all, perhaps: but the breath of it chilled the young man's ardors effectually.
"I'm afraid you must, though! This milk—"
"I decline. Trust me, I say. I intend to help you here."
But her reply was to put into words of one syllable, at last, what her manner had been saying plainly from the beginning:—
"My dear friend, you can't help me, in this."
She added, quietly snapping on a light: "Don't worry your head about it any more, please. Whatever, can be done,—I can and will do it, you may be sure."
It was odd how completely this silenced the young man. It was as if she had suddenly blown up the whole line of their communication.