"Dear Leonard—I suppose you are very busy in these last days of the term, and we all excuse your neglect of us. I shall be at the Hampton station on Thursday, having promised to see Natalie's maid (who don't speak English) on the evening train for New York. Perhaps you can meet me and return with me to dinner. Cousin Alice hopes you will."
He was careful not to find Paula until the train had gone, and he had assured himself that Berthe was among the passengers. Then he appeared.
"Why, Leonard," exclaimed Paula, "have you been ill?" The tone was full of concern. He shrank as if he had been struck.
"No," he said; "a little anxious—troubled."
"Over your freckled, gawky, thickshod theologues; what a pity you're not in the Church!"
This kind of outburst on the part of the speaker usually made Leonard laugh. To-night his laugh sounded hollow. "I suppose your Episcopalian students wear kids and use face powder," he said.
"There's no harm in kid gloves; inner vileness——"
"Is very bad, Paula; we'll not discuss it."
They walked across the Square, on the other side of which she had left the carriage. She looked up to his face to seek an explanation of the irritation discoverable in his tone; she noted that his hat was drawn down over his eyes in a way very unusual. They walked on in silence. "You will come with me?" she asked, when they had reached the carriage.
"Not to-night. You are right, I am not very well; it is nothing, I will come out this week. Has Natalie discharged her maid?"