My pipe, smoked out, I put in my pocket. If I could have gotten rid of my thoughts as easily I should have been happier, but that I could not do. They were strange thoughts, hopeless thoughts, ridiculous, unavailing thoughts. For me, Kent Knowles, quahaug, to permit myself to think in that way was worse than ridiculous; it was pitiful. This was a stern reality, this summer of mine in England, not a chapter in one of my romances. They ended happily; it was easy to make them end in that way. But this—this was no romance, or, if it was, I was but the comic relief in the story, the queer old bachelor who had made a fool of himself. That was what I was, an old fool. Well, I must stop being a fool before it was too late. No one knew I was such a fool. No one should know—now or ever.
And having reached this philosophical conclusion I proceeded to dream of dark eyes looking into mine across a breakfast table—our table; of a home in Bayport—our home; of someone always with me, to share my life, my hopes, to spur me on to a work worth while, to glory in my triumphs and comfort me in my reverses; to dream of what might have been if—if it were not absolutely impossible. Oh, fool, fool, fool!
A quick step sounded on the gravel walk outside the window. I knew the step, should have recognized it anywhere. She was walking rapidly toward the house, her head bent and her eyes fixed upon the path before her. Grimmer touched his hat and said “Good afternoon, miss,” but she apparently did not hear him. She passed on and I heard her enter the hall. A moment later she knocked at the study door.
She entered the room in answer to my invitation and closed the door behind her. She was dressed in her golfing costume, a plain white shirtwaist—blouse, she would have called it—a short, dark skirt and stout boots. The light garden hat was set upon her dark hair and her cheeks were flushed from rapid walking. The hat and waist and skirt were extremely becoming. She was pretty—yes, beautiful—and young. I was far from beautiful and far from young. I make this obvious statement because it was my thought at the moment.
She did not apologize for interrupting me, as she usually did when she entered the study during my supposed working periods. This was strange, of itself, and my sense of guilt caused me to fear all sorts of things. But she smiled and answered my greeting pleasantly enough and, for the moment, I experienced relief. Perhaps, after all, she had not learned of my interview with Heathcroft.
“I have come to talk with you,” she began. “May I sit down?”
“Certainly. Of course you may,” I answered, smiling as cheerfully as I could. “Was it necessary to ask permission?”
She took a chair and I seated myself in the one from which I had just risen. For a moment she was silent. I ventured a remark.
“This begins very solemnly,” I said. “Is the talk to be so very serious?”
She was serious enough and my apprehensions returned.