A new interest stirred within him, a satisfaction grew from her palpable liking for him, and was reflected in the warmer tones of his replies; a new pain ordered his comments. The situation, too, appealed to him; his instinct responded to the obvious implications of the position in the exact degree of his habit of mind. The familiar, professional gallantry took possession of him, directing the sensuality to which he abandoned himself.
He moved from the chair to the step by her side. Nearer she was more appealing still; a lovely shadow dwelt at the base of her throat; the simple dress took the soft curves of her girlish body, stirred with her breathing. Her hands lay loosely in her lap, and the impulse seized him to take them up, but he repressed it ... for the moment.
“I saw Buckley Simmons, yesterday,” she informed him, “his face is nearly well. He wanted to come out here, but I wouldn’t let him. He wants to marry me,” she continued serenely; “I told him I didn’t think I’d every marry.”
“But you will—some lucky, young man.”
“I don’t think I like young men, that is,” she qualified carefully, “not very young. I like men who are able to act ever so quickly, no matter what occurs, and they must be terribly brave. I like them best if they have been unfortunate; something in me wants to make up to them for—for any loss,” she paused, gazing at him with an elevated chin, serious lips, intent eyes.
This, he told himself complacently, was but a description of himself, as pointed as she dared to make it. “A man who had had trouble couldn’t do better than tell you about it,” he assured her; “I have had a good lot of trouble.”
“Well, tell me,” she moved toward him.
“Oh! you wouldn’t care to hear about mine. I’m a sort of nobody at present. I haven’t anything in the world—no home, nothing in the whole world. Even the little saving I had after the house was sold was—was taken from me by sharpers.”
“Tell me,” she repeated, “more.”
“When Valentine Simmons had sold my place, the place my grandfather built, I had about a thousand dollars left, and I thought I would start a little business with it, a ... a gun store,—I like guns,—here in Greenstream. And I’d sharpen scythes, put sickles into condition, you know, things like that. I went to Stenton with my capital in my pocket, looking for some stock to open with, and met a man in a hotel who said he was the representative of the Standard Hardware Company. He could let me have everything necessary, he said, at a half of what others would charge. We had dinner together, and he made a list of what I would need—files and vises and parts of guns. If I mailed my cheque immediately I could get the half off. He had cards, catalogues, references, from Richmond. I might write there, but I’d lose time and money.