“But,” I insisted, “what had Charles Edward to do with it?”
There were a great many pauses that night as if, I think, he didn't know what was wise to say. I should imagine it would always be so with psychologists. They understand so well what effect every word will have.
“Well, to tell the truth,” he answered, at last, in a kind, darling way, “I wanted to make sure all was well with my favorite pupil before I left the country. I couldn't quite go without it.”
“Mr. Dane,” I said, “you don't mean me?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I mean you.”
I could have danced and sung with happiness. “Oh,” said I, “then I must have been a better scholar than I thought. I feel as if I could teach psychology—this minute.”
“You could,” said he, “this minute.” And we both laughed and didn't know, after all, what we were laughing at—at least I didn't. But suddenly I was cold with fear.
“Why,” I said, “if you've only really decided to go to-night, how do you know you can get a passage on our ship?”
“Because, sweet Lady Reason,” said he, “I used Charlie Ned's telephone and found out.” (That was a pretty name—sweet Lady Reason.)
We didn't talk any more then for a long time, because suddenly the moon seemed so bright and the garden so sweet. But all at once I heard a step on the gravel walk, and I knew who it was. “That's Charles Edward,” I said. “He's been home with Aunt Elizabeth. We must go in.”