They had outwalked the others; Mr. Hammerton’s strides would not be pleasant to keep pace with in the long walk of life, as Dinah had once told him. It was a truth that no one recognized so well as himself, that he lacked the power of adaptation; he was too tall or too short, too broad or too narrow, too crooked or too straight for any niche in Dunellen, but the one that he had found in his boyhood by the snug, safe corner in the home where Dinah was growing up to entangle herself in his heart, and Tessa, lovable and wise, to enthrone herself in his intellect. In the game of forfeits, when he had been doomed to “Bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the one you love the best,” in the long ago evenings, when they were all, old and young, children together, he had always bowed to Tessa and knelt to bewitching little Dine and kissed her. Now he bowed to Tessa, but he did not kiss Dine.
They stood waiting near a lamp-post; he, fidgeting as usual, she, straight and still.
“Lady Blue, you never put me on a pedestal, did you?”
“No, you never kept still long enough.”
Professor Towne passed them with Mrs. Towne leaning upon his arm; Mrs. Towne bowed and smiled, he lifted his hat in recognition of Tessa’s hesitating half inclination.
“Why, Tessa! Do you know him?”
“I almost spoke to him one day by mistake; I did not intend to bow, but he looked at me—I suppose the bow bowed itself.”
“He has a noble presence! He is altogether finer physically than his cousin.”
“I don’t know that he is,” she answered wilfully. Dinah came willingly enough; they walked more slowly and talked.
“Tessa,” began Dine abruptly as they were brushing their hair at bedtime, “isn’t Gus a fine talker?”