That very day he spoke to Mrs. Echalaz alone, when the evening twilight made it easier to say what he knew she would oppose with the pretty tyranny which they all exercised upon him, and which his natural shyness made it very hard for him to resist.
“As if I should listen to such nonsense,” said Mrs. Echalaz, just as he had felt that she would. “You are not going for at least a week.”
His thin, brown hand twitched nervously on the arm of his chair.
“You are very kind,” he said, huskily—“much too kind; but I must go. Please do not urge me to stay—you don’t know how hard you make it to me.”
Mrs. Echalaz laid her pretty jewelled fingers on his restless hand.
“Now tell me why you must go,” she said, kindly; “and if it is a good reason I will allow it.”
He hesitated long enough for her to divine that his answer, when it came, was an evasion.
“I know it is my duty,” he said, looking down. “I shall do wrong to stay here—doing nothing.” The last two words he added rather hastily, after an instant’s embarrassment.
“So you will not tell me?” said Mrs. Echalaz, reproachfully.
He raised his eyes, doubting, to her face, with a strong impulse to tell her all; then he smiled faintly.