Roger told her once that she had the feet and fingers of a fairy; she said to herself that she needed them that afternoon.
At that very moment when feet and fingers were busy in his kitchen, how her young enthusiasm would have been kindled could she have heard the story he was telling Roger.
“It has been a tug for me, something to go through with. You do not know unless you have had something of the sort happen to you. It may end in my going away. She is everything to be desired, and more than I deserve. A splendid looking girl, a college graduate, just the wife for a minister, keen as a flash, quick at repartee, as spicy as a magazine article, born to command, a perfect lady, with a winning manner, and I can’t love her if it kills me. I’ve been down on my knees begging the Lord to make me love her: and she is no more to me than a picture, or a statue, or a character in a book. It unmans me to feel how her heart has gone out to me. She is as brave about it as she can be.”
“How, in the name of wonder, do you know it then?” asked Roger, in astonishment.
“I know it because I cannot help knowing it. If you do not know how I know it I cannot tell you. Her mother knows it, and how she watches me. They say Frederick Robertson married in a like way; he was afraid he had been dishonorable. But this is none of my doing.”
“I can believe that, old fellow.”
“What am I to do?”
“Steer clear of her.”
“All my steering will not keep me clear of her. We are constantly brought together.”
“Introduce me. You will be nowhere.”