“None,” said Anne, taking his hand and looking at her watch. “Pulse good, too. I don’t think a talk will hurt you. Tell me when you are tired.”
“I promise, but you shall do the talking. I will listen.”
“You had better be careful how you give such large liberty. Did you ever, by chance, know Miss Pearson?”
“Yes, yes,” and he laughed, “years ago—that statistical lady in Germantown. I had some engineering work near there. Oh, years ago: I was a mere lad. I knew all those good people, Mrs. Fox and the Mortons. But what about Miss Pearson? Good woman, I take it?”
“Yes, entirely; but she kept her religion on ice; a sort of east-wind of a woman. She had that bloodless propriety which passes muster for dignity. When you gave me full discretion as to talk, I meant to tell you her description of my conversation; I don’t think I shall.”
“Well, you are revenged, I think,” and he laughed. “I find I must not laugh; it hurts. You will have to be grave, if you talk at all.”
“I think I must tell you. She declared that if I wanted to be amusing, I never hesitated to be either inaccurate or untruthful, and that, while accidental inaccuracy was deplorable, intended intellectual inaccuracy was criminal!”
“That is surprisingly like her—or was. She is dead, I think.”
“Yes. How it must bother her! One can’t imagine accuracy in space, and where time is not. I don’t suppose the angels plume themselves on punctuality.”
“Really, Miss Anne!”