Part 4 (2/2)

”It is convenient,” said Paul briefly. And that was all the conversation they had that day.

He wanted no letters written the next day, and she read the paper to him instead. But Miss Esther stayed in the room all the time, with her knitting, and there was no conversation that day either. On the third day, however, her aunt was wanted in the parish; and she deputed the Rector to take her place in the sick room. She might have known that he would forget all about it, directly she was gone; but Miss Esther always acted on the a.s.sumption that her brother possessed all the excellent qualities she wished him to have, and it never occurred to her that he would spend the afternoon in finis.h.i.+ng his paper on the antiquities of the county.

”Aunt Esther has gone to see a poor woman who has lost her baby. I never can imagine why a woman who has lost her baby should be visited just because she is poor. Can you?” said Katharine, as she settled herself on the spare-room window-seat with her writing materials.

”No,” said Paul, concealing his satisfaction that Miss Esther was of a different opinion. ”You needn't bother about writing any letters to-day, thanks,” he continued carelessly; ”and I don't think I want to hear the paper, either.”

”Don't you? oh!” said Katharine, looking disappointed. ”Then there's nothing I can do for you?”

”Oh, yes. You can talk, if you will,” said Paul, smiling. ”Come and sit on the chair at the end of the bed, where you sat the first day you came in. I can see you, then.”

”It is ever so much nicer to see the person you are talking to, isn't it?” observed Katharine, as she obeyed his suggestion.

”Much nicer,” a.s.sented Paul, though it had never occurred to him to suggest that Miss Esther should occupy that particular chair. ”Now then, talk, please!”

Katharine made a sign of dismay.

”I can't,” she said. ”You begin.”

”Who is your favourite poet?” asked Paul solemnly. She disconcerted him by taking his question seriously, and he had to listen to her enthusiastic eulogies of several favourite poets, before he had an opportunity of explaining himself.

She detected him in the act of suppressing a yawn, and she stopped suddenly, in the middle of a sentence.

”I believe I am boring you dreadfully. Shall I go?” she asked. The colour had come into her cheeks, and her voice had a note of distress in it.

”I want you to tell me something, first,” was his unexpected reply.

”Do you talk about poetry to young Morton?”

”Ted? Why, no, of course not. What an awful reflection! Ted isn't a bit poetic, not a little bit; and he would scoff like anything. I have never talked about the things I really like to anybody before; not even to daddy, much.”

This was a little dangerous, and the tomboy daughter of the parson was not the kind of personality that was likely to make the danger fascinating. And Paul's first impulse was to wince at the unstudied frankness of her remark; but four days of seclusion had been exceedingly chastening, and the flattery that underlay her words was not unpleasing to him.

”Then what made you suppose _I_ cared about poetry, eh?” he asked deliberately.

”Why,” said Katharine, staring at him, ”you began it, don't you remember? I thought you wanted me to tell you what I thought.”

”Yes, yes; I am aware of that. But don't you think we have talked enough about poetry for one day?” said Paul, half closing his eyes. He was already regretting his stupidity in expecting her to understand him.

”How awfully funny you are! First you say--”

”Yes,” said Paul, as patiently as he could, ”I know. Don't let us say any more about it. Supposing you were to talk to me now as you would talk to young Morton, for instance!”

Katharine shook her head doubtfully.

”I don't think I could. You're not like Ted; you don't like the same sort of things. You're not like me, either.”

Paul smiled grimly.

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