Surely no lover ever had a more reasonable and attractive path to travel. Belle was everything that could be desired. When his visits were infrequent, she did not seem to miss him, and—rarest quality in woman!—never asked him any questions as to the way in which he had spent the time away from her.
Tom felt like a pioneer who had emancipated his sex by applying the test of reason to every duty and pleasure in life.
The summer waned, and beside the open fire in the long cool evenings she seemed doubly attractive. In a friendly way, he took her hand in his, as they sat in front of the flaming brushwood, then started in surprise.
"What is it?" she asked.
"The queerest thing," Tom answered. "When I touched your hand just now, I felt a funny little quiver run up that arm to my elbow. Did you ever feel a thing like that?"
Belle forsook the path of absolute truth.
"No, how queer!"
"Isn't it?" He took her hand again, but the touch brought no answering thrill. "Must have been my imagination, or a chill," commented Tom.
Alone in her room, Miss Marshall laughed softly to herself.
"Imagination, or a chill! What a dear funny stupid thing a man is!"