“She is looking forward to you; your sister’s enthusiasm never flags when she may talk of you.”
The talk drifted into books; Mr. Hammerton drew nearer, his questions and apt replies added zest to the conversation; Tessa mentally decided that he was more original than the Professor; the Professor’s questions were good, but no one in all her world could reply like Gus Hammerton; she was proud of him to-night with a feeling of ownership; in loving Dine, had he not become as near as a brother to her?
This feeling of ownership was decidedly pleasant; with it came a safe, warm feeling that she was taken care of; that she had a right to be taken care of and to be proud of him. No one in the world, the most keen-eyed student of human nature, could ever have guessed that he was suffering from a heartache; he had greeted her with the self-possession of ten years ago, had inquired about the “folks at home,” and asked if Dine were up in the clouds still. Could Dine have made a mistake? Had she dreamed it?
Professor Towne moved away to go to Nan Gerard; Tessa listened to Mr. Hammerton, he was telling her about a discovery in science, and half comprehending and not at all replying she watched Professor Towne’s countenance and motions. She could hear about this discovery some other time, but she might not have another opportunity to study the Professor. He was her lesson to-night. As he talked, she decided that he did not so much resemble his cousin as her first glance had revealed; his voice was resonant, his manner more courteous; he was not at all the “big boy,” he was dignified, frank, and yet reserved; simple, at times, as his sister might be, and cultured, far beyond any thing she had ever thought of in regard to Dr. Towne; he was as intellectual as Gus Hammerton, as gracious as Felix Harrison, with as much heart as Dr. Lake, a physical presence as fascinating as Dr. Towne, and as pure-hearted and spiritualized as only himself could be. She had found her ideal at last. She had found him and was scrutinizing him as coolly and as critically as if he were one of the engravings in the book in her lap. She would never find a flaw in him; when she wrote her novel he should be her hero.
“Why, doctor! Have the skies fallen? Did you hear that we were all taken with convulsions?”
Nan Gerard’s laugh followed this; the doctor’s reply was cool and commonplace.
“What is the title of your book?” Mr. Hammerton was asking. “‘Hepsey’s Heartache?’ ‘Jennie’s Jumble?’ ‘Dora’s Distress?’ ‘Fannie’s Fancy?’ or it may be ‘Up Top or Down Below,’ ‘Smashed Hopes or Broken Idols.’”
“I will not answer you if you are not serious.”
“I thought that young ladies gloried in sentiment.”