"What are you talking about?" Dr. Lavendar said, with a puzzled blink.
"Well," William said, smiling, "there's no haste, only I thought I'd just remind you. I'm always business-like myself; and that little matter of accommodation—"
Dr. Lavendar stared at him. "I am afraid I'm a stupid old fellow; I don't understand."
The stage-driver gathered up his reins; Miss Lydia nodded joyously on the back seat, the two other passengers frowned at the delay; so William Rives made haste to explain: "Merely, sir, the stamp I had the pleasure of lending you. But pray don't incommode yourself; I merely remind you; it's of no—"
Dr. Lavendar pulled out his shabby leather pocket-book, his hands fairly trembling with haste, and produced the stamp; then he pulled the door to, and as the stage sagged forward and went tugging up the hill, he turned his astonished eyes on Miss Lydia. She had grown very pale, but she said nothing, only looking out of the window and rubbing her little cotton gloves hard together.
"Would you have asked him for a receipt?" Dr. Lavendar said, under his breath, chuckling. But when she tried to answer him, there was something in her face that turned Dr. Lavendar grave.
The stage jolted on; the two other passengers chatted, then one fell asleep and the other read an almanac. Suddenly Miss Lydia turned sharply round. "It just kills me!" she said.
"Nonsense!" Dr. Lavendar told her. "He is a man of business, and I'm a forgetful old codger. I knew William, and I ought to have remembered."
But Miss Lydia's face had fallen into such drawn and anxious lines that Dr. Lavendar had to do his best to cheer her. He began to ask questions: How long was it since she had been in Mercer? Was she going to call on friends? Was she going to shop? "I believe you ladies always want to shop?" said Dr. Lavendar, kindly. And somehow Miss Lydia brightened up. Yes; she was going to shop! It was a secret: she couldn't tell Dr. Lavendar yet, but he should know about it first of all. She was so happy, so important, so excited, that her pain at William's business-like ways seemed forgotten; and when in Mercer they separated at the Stage House, she went bustling off into the sunshine, waving a shabby cotton glove at him, and crying, "I haven't a minute to lose!"
Dr. Lavendar stood still and shook his head. "Pity," he said—"pity, pity. But I suppose it can't be helped. There's no use telling William about her; he must see it. And there's no use telling her about William; she must see it. No—no use. But it's a pity—a pity." Which shows that Dr. Lavendar had reached that degree of wisdom which knows that successful interference in love affairs must come from the inside, not from the outside.