Having replaced the easel and drawing, he seated himself on an ottoman, put his elbows on his knees, laid his forehead in his hands, and began to meditate aloud.
“Yes,” he said, with a profound sigh, “I love her—that’s as clear as daylight; and she does not love me—that’s clearer than daylight. Unrequited love! That’s what I’ve come to! Nevertheless, I’m not in wild despair. How’s that? I don’t want to shoot or drown myself. How’s that? On the contrary, I want to live and rescue her. I could serve or die for that child with pleasure—without even the reward of a smile! There must be something peculiar here. Is it—can it be Platonic love? Of course that must be it. Yes, I’ve often heard and read of that sort of love before. I know it now, and—and—I rather like it!”
“You don’t look as if you did, Geo’ge,” said a deep voice beside him.
George started up with a face of scarlet.
“Peter!” he exclaimed fiercely, “did you hear me speak? What did you hear?”
“Halo! Geo’ge, don’t squeeze my arm so! You’s hurtin’ me. I hear you say somet’ing ’bout plotummik lub, but what sort o’ lub that may be is more’n I kin tell.”
“Are you sure that is all you— But come, Peter, I should have no secrets from you. The truth is,” (he whispered low here), “I have seen Hester Sommers—here, in this room, not half an hour ago—and—and I feel that I am hopelessly in love with her—Platonically, that is—but I fear you won’t understand what that means—”
The midshipman stopped abruptly. For the first time since they became acquainted he saw a grave expression of decided disapproval on the face of his sable friend.
“Geo’ge,” said Peter solemnly, “you tell me you hab took ’vantage ob bein’ invited to your master’s house to make lub—plo—plotummikilly or oderwise—to your master’s slabe?”
“No, Peter, I told you nothing of the sort. The meeting with Hester was purely accidental—at least it was none of my seeking—and I did not make love to her—”