Part 18 (1/2)

He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. ”It will be here soon. We can go out in April.”

He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was her golden opportunity; and she took it.

”Splendid!” she cried--”splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. I am scarcely able to wait at all.”

”I suppose,” he said, ”it seems a long time that you have been separated.”

”Oh, so long,” she answered, softly. ”And I do so want him.”

He walked on, slowly. ”I shall miss you very much.”

Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she answered. ”Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I owe so much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thank you for your winter's hospitality.”

”It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid.”

”I shall be sorry--in a way,” she went on. ”We have become such good friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to remember. I shall always be glad of that.”

”Yes,” he said. ”I am glad, indeed, that you feel so.”

”If any one had ever told me that I should find so rare a gentleman here”--she laughed--”I would have thought they were talking medieval gallantry.”

”Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady.”

Claire flushed a little, and said nothing.

”I shall remember you with pleasure and regret,” continued Philip, his head high.

Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. ”Oh, with regret, too?”

”Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to stay longer.”

”You are a consummate flatterer, Philip,” she chided.

”I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I should be in earnest,” he said, a little bitterly.

Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel sorry now?

”I didn't mean that,” she said, earnestly. ”Believe me, I did not.”

”No,” he replied, ”you answered out of mere indifference.”

”But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much.” She was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional att.i.tudes these days.

She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the man to whom she owed so much.

”I know,” he said, ”one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign mountaineer.”

She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface.

”Philip, why do you misunderstand me?” she cried. ”It isn't that at all.

I like you for the man you are.”