“Hardly a gracious remark, seeing that Marjorie and I are here, and all these cottagers are friends of ours!”
“I haven’t the slightest objection to you and Marjorie. You fit into the landscape delightfully—give it tone and color; but I was thinking of the noisy people at the inns down by the village. They seem rather unnecessary. The Poet and I agreed about that this morning while we were looking for a quiet place for an after-breakfast smoke.”
“It must be quite fine to know him—really know him,” she said musingly.
“Yes; but before you grow too envious of my acquaintance I’ll have to confess that I’ve known him less than a week.”
“A great deal can happen in a week,” she remarked absently.
“A great deal has!” he returned quickly.
This seemed to be rather leading; but a cry for help from Marjorie provided a diversion.
Fulton jumped up and ran to the perplexed builder’s aid, neatly repaired a broken wall, and when he had received the child’s grave thanks reseated himself at Marian’s feet. The blue onion-skin paper had disappeared from her belt; he caught her in the act of crumpling the sheets into her sleeve.
With their disappearance she felt her courage returning. His confessions as to the farm, the university, the newspaper—created an outline which she meant to encourage him to fill in. Journalism, like war and the labors of those who go down to the sea in ships, suggests romance; and Marian had never known a reporter before.
“I should think it would be great fun working on a newspaper, and knowing things before they happen.”