He had laid before her all his plans for self-improvement and her encouragement was even more stimulating than Eaton’s. She fell at times into a maternal attitude toward him, scolding and lecturing him, and he was meek under her criticism.
Nan felt more at home with him than with any other young man who called on her. With some of these, whose mothers and sisters had been treating her coldly, she felt herself to be playing a part—trying to assume a dignity that was not naturally hers in order that they might give a good account of her at home. With Jerry she could be herself without dissimulation. When it came to mothers, he remembered her mother perfectly and she remembered his. In a sense she and Jerry were allies, engaged in accommodating themselves to a somewhat questioning if not hostile atmosphere. In all her acquaintance he was the one person who could make the necessary allowances for her, who was able to give her full credit for her good intentions.
On his seventh call he summoned courage to ask her to join him on a Saturday afternoon excursion on the river.
“The foliage is unusually beautiful this year,” he suggested with his air of quoting, “and it’ll be too cold for canoeing pretty soon.”
“I’m afraid—” Nan began.
“I knew you’d say that; but you’re as safe in my boat as in your own rocking-chair.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” laughed Nan. “I was going to say that I was afraid you wouldn’t enjoy the foliage so much if I were along.”
He saw that she was laughing at him. Nan and Eaton were the only persons whose mirth he suffered without resentment.
“I’ll have to ask papa about it; or maybe you’ll ask him.”
“I’ve already asked him.”