She peeped between the covers.
"Oh, it's all Greek!"—she said—"Do you read Greek?"
"It is one of the happiest accomplishments I learned at college,"— he replied. "I have eased many a heartache by reading Homer in the original."
She looked meditative.
"Now that's very strange!" she murmured—"I should never have thought that to read Homer in the original Greek would ease a heartache! How does it do it? Will you teach me?"
She raised her eyes—how beautiful and blue they were he thought!— more beautiful for the mist of weeping that still lingered about their soft radiance.
"I will teach you Greek, if you like, with pleasure!"—he said, smiling a little, though his lips trembled—"But whether it would cure any heartache of yours I could not promise!"
"Still, if it cures YOUR heartaches?" she persisted.
"Mine are of a different character, I think!"—and the smile in his eyes deepened, as he looked down at her wistfully upturned face,—"I am getting old,—you are still young. That makes all the difference. My aches can be soothed by philosophy,—yours could only be charmed away by—"
He broke off abruptly. The hot blood rose to his temples, and retreated again, leaving him very pale.