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“If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply.”

“I mean–sorry on his own account; that–that he had thrown away all that, you know?”

The philosopher looked meditative.

“I think,” he pronounced, “that it is very possible he would. I can well imagine it.”

“He might never find anybody to love him like that again,” she said, gazing on the gleaming paddock.

“He probably would not,” agreed the philosopher.

“And–and most people like being loved, don’t they?”

“To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May.”

“Yes, almost,” she said, with a dreary little smile. “You see, he’ll get old, and–and have no one to look after him.”

“He will.”

“And no home.”

“Well, in a sense, none,” corrected the philosopher, smiling. “But really you’ll frighten me. I’m a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May.”

“Yes,” she whispered, just audibly.

“And all your terrors are before me.”

“Well, unless–“

“Oh, we needn’t have that ‘unless,'” laughed the philosopher, cheerfully. “There’s no ‘unless’ about it, Miss May.”

The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and at the thought of what lay at her tongue’s tip her face grew red. But the philosopher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on the gleaming paddock.

“A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure,” said he.

Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without speaking, she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping. The philosopher heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the orchard; he watched her for a few moments.

“A pretty, graceful creature,” said he, with a smile. Then he opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful forefinger to mark the fly-leaf.

The sun had passed mid-heaven and began to decline westward before he finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his watch.

“Good gracious, two o’clock! I shall be late for lunch!” and he hurried to his feet.

He was very late for lunch.

“Everything’s cold,” wailed his hostess. “Where have you been, Mr. Jerningham?”

“Only in the orchard-reading.”

“And you’ve missed May!”

“Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her this morning–a most interesting talk.”

“But you weren’t here to say good-by. Now you don’t mean to say that you forgot that she was leaving by the two-o’clock train? What a man you are!”

“Dear me! To think of my forgetting it!” said the philosopher, shamefacedly.

“She told me to say good-bye to you for her.”

“She’s very kind. I can’t forgive myself.”

His hostess looked at him for a moment; then she sighed, and smiled, and sighed again.

“Have you everything you want?” she asked.

“Everything, thank you,” said he, sitting down opposite the cheese, and propping his book (he thought he would just run through the last chapter again) against the loaf; “everything in the world that I want, thanks.”

His hostess did not tell him that the girl had come in from the apple orchard and run hastily upstairs, lest her friend should see what her friend did see in her eyes. So that he had no suspicion at all that he had received an offer of marriage–and refused it. And he did not refer to anything of that sort when he paused once in his reading and exclaimed:

“I’m really sorry I missed Miss May. That was an interesting case of hers. But I gave the right answer; the girl ought to marry A.”

And so the girl did.