"Of course," said the Professor with unnecessary alacrity.
As he walked back he had a sensation as if a cool breeze from the Back Bay, at once bracing and chilling, had suddenly begun to blow across the summer air. The same sensation recurred later in the day when he found himself strolling with her under the drooping peppers to the Mission and through the town. Had they not often planned it—ages ago?—or had not he planned it in his mind—at least it had been tacitly understood, and—here it was.
She was looking admirably, too. The little precision of her starched collar and cuffs, and severe hat and correct gown, were an echo of his native city. She was the best type of the things he liked and approved and believed in.
And her mood was the bright mood of comradeship he always enjoyed. She faced the semi-tropical world with fresh, appreciative eyes, and her sense of humor was like his native air re-breathed. So singly did the place occupy her that the Professor expanded gradually and his tongue lost its knot.
"And you regret nothing here?" said Miss Dysart at last, suddenly.
"Nothing," replied the Professor, emphatically—and stopped.
"That is what it is to have a foreign grandmother. You do not even miss the symphony concerts—the Greek play—the Sunday afternoons."
The Professor laughed rather drearily.
"It is the same thing, I suppose, which leads the scarlet geranium to be a climber here, and calla-lilies to grow wild, and heliotrope to run up to the house-eaves. What a poem of a place!" she exclaimed, stopping. "And what a beautiful creature!"
"This is—er—where I am staying," replied the Professor, all his impediments returned. "That is Francisco—he is a handsome lad; and that is his sister, Miss Francisca, on the veranda. Pray come in and see the roses."