I suggested going up to the Roman theater and baths, but Sam, who was that afternoon so light hearted that he was almost silly, said he’d had a bath only about two hours before, and Miss Sheila said she’d had one only a few minutes before, and that she preferred walking down hill.
“But you’ll have to walk back,” I said, for I didn’t want to get near Mr. Wake’s house!
“Not until the sun’s lower,” said Sam.
“And then we could ride,” said Miss Sheila.
“Exactly Mr. Wake’s spirit,” said Sam. “She ought to know him, now oughtn’t she, Jane?”
I could do nothing with him. He acted just exactly as Daddy does when we have guests and Mother tries to head him off with a little kick under the table. He always looks at her, and says, “Did you kick me, my dear? Forgotten to serve some one, or something? Let me see!” which makes it all the worse, because almost always at that point, he is serving everything in the dish to one person, or telling a story he tells about a quick remarriage—to the guest who is remarried. I imagine most men are like that.
Anyway, Sam talked—no, he did what Leslie would have called “raved” about Mr. Wake, and Miss Sheila listened and questioned and wanted more.
“His books,” she said, “are delightful. . . . Little phrases in them make me think of some one I knew years ago. . . . And his kindness to Jane has made me like him, too. Did you say his place is out this way?”
“I did,” Sam answered, “and mighty good luck it is, too,” he added, “for it’s going to pour—come on—”
“We’re quite as near the convent,” I put in, in a manner that must have been agonized.