He started at the change in her tone.
"I wish that I might stay," he said regretfully. "But I cannot, Miss
Carvel."
He gave no reason. And she was too proud to ask it. Never before had she stooped to urge young men to stay. The difficulty had always been to get them to go. It was natural, perhaps, that her vanity was wounded. But it hurt her to think that she had made the overture, had tried to conquer whatever it was that set her against him, and had failed through him.
"You must find the city attractive. Perhaps," she added, with a little laugh, "perhaps it is Bellefontaine Road."
"No," he answered, smiling.
"Then" (with a touch of derision), "then it is because you cannot miss an afternoon's work. You are that kind."
"I was not always that kind," he answered. "I did not work at Harvard.
But now I have to or—or starve," he said.
For the second time his complete simplicity had disarmed her. He had not appealed to her sympathy, nor had he hinted at the luxury in which he was brought up. She would have liked to question Stephen on this former life. But she changed the subject suddenly.
"What did you really think of Mr. Lincoln?" she asked.
"I thought him the ugliest man I ever saw, and the handsomest as well."