He made a gesture for the Professor to lead the way back, which the Professor did like a blind man. He could not have told whether his bitterness was toward the boy or himself. Half way he stopped.
"What am I to tell her?"
"You can have business—and she will understand."
The Professor ground his teeth, and going to his room, began grimly flinging things into his trunk. He was furious with Francisco, with himself, with the climate which could lead a man to this.
He ate his lunch in silence. So did Francisco. Men have these refuges. Francisca the woman, with a thread of speech, kept that silence from bursting. After lunch the Professor finished packing, wrote a brief note declining the Chair, and went down to buy his ticket. All the way down the landscape cried out to him.
As he left the station with his ticket in his hand he encountered Miss Dysart on the threshold with her purse in hers.
"What is the matter?" she exclaimed, after one glance. "Where are you going?"
"Home," answered the Professor. "I was coming to tell you."
Miss Dysart opened her lips, then closed them again, and turning without a word they walked on until the bend of the road threw them from the town into the country lane. There she stopped.
"Why are you going? You must have reasons."