“Mr. Lathrop!” she began, severely.
As though to see to whom she had spoken Lathrop glanced anxiously over his shoulder. Apparently pained and surprised to find that it was to him she had addressed herself, he regarded her with deep reproach. His eyes were very beautiful. It was a fact which had often caused Miss Farrar extreme annoyance.
He shook his head sadly.
“‘Mr. Lathrop?’” he protested. “You know that to you I am always ‘Charles—Charles the Bold,’ because I am bold to love you; but never ‘Mr. Lathrop,’ unless,” he went on briskly, “you are referring to a future state, when, as Mrs. Lathrop, you will make me—”
Miss Farrar had turned her back on him, and was walking rapidly up the path.
“Beatrice,” he called. “I am coming after you!”
Miss Farrar instantly returned and placed both hands firmly upon the gate.
“I cannot understand you!” she said. “Don’t you see that when you act as you do now, I can’t even respect you? How do you think I could ever care, when you offend me so? You jest at what you pretend is the most serious thing in your life. You play with it—laugh at it!”
The young man interrupted her sharply.
“It’s like this,” he said. “When I am with you I am so happy I can’t be serious. When I am NOT with you, it is SO serious that I am utterly and completely wretched. You say my love offends you, bores you! I am sorry, but what, in heaven’s name, do you think your NOT loving me is doing to ME? I am a wreck! I am a skeleton! Look at me!”