“Why not? Father is in and will be glad to see you.”
“I—I must be getting on toward home. Supper will be ready.”
She bit her lip. “Far be it from me to criticize your domestic arrangements, Mr. Paine,” she said, “but it does seem to me that your housekeeper serves meals at odd hours. It is only a few minutes after four, by my watch.”
She had me at a disadvantage. I imagined I must have appeared embarrassed. I know I felt that way.
“I did not realize . . . I thought it much later,” I stammered.
“Then you will come in? Father will like to discuss the fishing with you, I know. He has talked of little but his wonderful weakfish ever since he caught it.”
“No, thank you, Miss Colton. Really, I must not stop.”
She took the parcel from my hands.
“Very well,” she said, indifferently; “as you please. I thank you for your kindness in walking down with me. Good afternoon, Mr. Paine.”
She turned away. Here was the opportunity I had been waiting for, the opportunity of breaking off our acquaintance. If I knew anything I knew the tone of that “Good afternoon” meant that, for some reason or other, she was offended, just as I had been certain I wished her to be. Here was the opportunity, Heaven sent, to rid my life of its disturbing influence. Just what I had prayed for had come to pass.