“Good-by,” squeezing his fingers through his glove. “Go home and eat.”
“Give me a good word before I go.”
“Wait.”
“Is that the best word you know?”
“It is good enough.”
“Well, good day, Mystic,” he said, lifting his hat.
She went back to the grassy wayside, thinking. What right had Sue Greyson’s light fingers to meddle with a life like Dr. Lake’s? They had not one taste in common. How could he find her attractive? She disliked every thing in which he was interested; it was true that she could sing, sing like one of the wild birds down in the woods, and he loved music.
She paused and stood leaning against the rails of a fence, and looked across the green acres of winter wheat; one day in September she had stood there watching the men as they were drilling the wheat; afterward she had seen the tender, green blades springing up in straight rows, and once she had seen the whole field green beneath a light snow. The wind moved her veil slightly, both hands were drooping as her elbows leaned upon the upper rail, her cheeks were tinged with the excitement of Dr. Lake’s words, and her eyes suffused with a mist that was too sorrowful to drop with tears. A quick step on the grass at her side did not startle her; she did not stir until a voice propounded gravely: “If a man should be born with two heads, on which forehead must he wear the phylactery?”
She turned with a laugh. “Gus, I would know that was you if I heard the voice and the question in the Great Desert.”
“Can’t you decide?”