"We go to church again."
He saw plainly there was not a moment for him unless it was made, and that the young woman had no thought of making it.
"Then I shall not see you for a day or two." Glimpses about quadrangle or doorway he counted as nothing. "Good-by!" He held out his hand with elaborate courtesy.
Frances laid her own, heavily gloved in his for an instant and looked him frankly in the eyes. "Good-by!" she said. "What a ride it was, but—" a little sigh was on her lips as she opened the heavy door.
Susan, watching for the young woman's approach, keeping her dinner warm and warming her own wrath as well, saw the leave-taking.
"Hm! hm!" grunted the old negress, "what Miss Frances doing comin' home dis way, dat man 'long her too?"
The Faculty might be cosmopolitan; Susan was Virginian to the backbone. "An' he a fur-away-er," which was Susan's term for people from anywhere except her own State. "An' he a fur-away-er," she muttered, as she betook herself to the kitchen.
Frances marched straight to the study, where the professor always lingered a short space after his dinner, and told her tale briefly. She expected many words. The professor, like many another man in an emergency, had none. His daughter was worse scared than if he had stormed. When he did speak she felt she had no idea what he would say. Would he forbid her riding altogether?
She went to her dinner, but he laid down his book and looked long at the glowing coals, then got up and went his way. She was his motherless daughter, sweet, true, beloved. A girl must have some fad, he supposed. Sweethearts, or horses? He chose the latter. He never dreamed of both.