She was silent.
“It’s not a very pleasant day for sitting out in the garden with a book,” he went on. “Especially a book of verse. A book of verse demands rather more sunshine and a less chilly wind. Don’t you think so?”
She looked up and was pleasantly conscious of the agreeable smile which at times made him appear almost handsome.
“I haven’t thought about it,” she said. “I just came out for a little rest in the fresh air—”
“Ah, yes!—you are tired!—I can see that!” he remarked. “You do too much altogether, too much at the Hospital to begin with, and you add to your burdens by rushing down to see that old gentleman at his cottage who can very well look after himself—I mean Mr. Durham, who follows the pursuit of Izaak Walton. Why not leave him to the gods and little fishes?”
He smiled again, and spying a garden chair, brought it to her side and sat down upon it.
“Why not,” he repeated affably, “leave him to the gods and little fishes? He is not an attractive person,—and he is quite likely to occupy your time more than he should. Perhaps you imagine him to be ailing in some way—but from his general physical contour I should say he is tough as leather—tougher, possibly. He’s the perfect type of a tanned and dried American,—self-preserved in a thick dollar hide!”
A swift flush of colour swept over Sylvia’s fair face.
“You mistake him,” she said, gently. “Indeed you do! He has a very warm heart, and he is always ready to do good wherever he can. People think he is rich,—but he isn’t really.”
“Oh! You think he isn’t really?” The Philosopher pulled out his pipe and match box. “He isn’t really! Now—how do you know he isn’t?”