"Deep down in my innards," protested the Professor, with mock displeasure, "I've an irresistible impulse to be nasty. I'd like to think it righteous indignation—but it may be only hunger. At any rate, here goes: Anyone who can delay a meal in this boarding-house should have his rates raised. He insults the fare—as well as the f-a-i-r." He bowed to their hostess.
"I nearly lost myself," apologised Stamford. "Deep down in my innards is only hunger; and I'm not going to make it an excuse for mushy compliments. I'll leave contrition until I've satisfied my hunger."
"Indigestion is the most likely result," laughed the Professor.
"Were you really lost?" asked Isabel anxiously. "You know how dangerous——"
"Isabel Bulkeley"—the Professor was shaking a stern finger at her—"I refuse to share your anxiety with Mr. Stamford."
"Having made such a failure of mothering you," she retorted, flushing, "I'm inclined to transfer my anxiety."
"I wasn't really lost," Stamford assured her, "for I stuck to the river-bank. But I've been further than I ever was before—many miles to the west."
He regarded the Professor significantly as he said it.
"I, too, went far afield," returned the Professor mysteriously. "And I found promising signs. But before I say more I want to be certain; it's disappointing to hope too much. It's very interesting up there, isn't it?"
"It is—very," Stamford replied into his soup-spoon.