"I would rather talk about you, and what you mean to me--beauty and
poetry and good--"
"Don't!" she said sharply, "Beauty and poetry and goodness."
"I'm not beautiful, and I'm not--poetical."
"And so I worship you," the young man went on in a low happy voice.
"Do please be quiet! I won't be worshipped."
"I don't see how you are going to help it," he said calmly. "Mrs.
Richie, I've got my skiff; it came yesterday. Will you go out on the
river with me some afternoon?"
"Oh, I don't think I care about boating," she said.
"You don't!" he exclaimed blankly; "why, I only got it because I
thought you would go out with me!"
"I don't like the water," she said firmly.
Sam was silent; then he sighed. "I wish I'd asked you before I bought
it. Father is so unreasonable."
She looked puzzled, for the connection was not obvious.
"Father always wants things used," Sam explained. "Do you really
dislike boating?"
"You absurd boy!" she said laughing; "of course you will use it; don't
talk nonsense!"
Sam looked into the fire. "Do you ever have the feeling," he said in
an empty voice, "that nothing is worth while? I mean, if you are
disappointed in anything? A feeling as if you didn't care, at all,
about anything? I have it often. A sort of loss of appetite in my
mind. Do you know it?"
"Do I know it?" she said, and laughed so harshly that the boy drew
back. "Yes, Sam; I know it."
Sam sighed; "I hate that skiff."
And at that she laughed again, but this time with pure gayety. "Oh,
you foolish boy!" she said. Then she glanced at the clock. "Sam, I
have some letters to write to-night--will you think I am very
ungracious if I ask you to excuse me?" Sam was instantly apologetic.
"I've stayed too long! Grandfather told me I ought never to come and
see you--"
"What!"
"He said I bothered you."
"You don't bother me," she protested; "I mean, when you talk about
your play you don't bother me. But to-night--"
"Of course," said Sam simply, and took himself off after one or two
directions about the bird.
When the front door closed behind him she went back to her seat by the
lamp, and took up her novel; but her eyes did not see the printed
page. Suddenly she threw the book down on the table. It was impossible
to read; Sam's talk had disturbed her to the point of sharp
discomfort. What did old Mr. Wright mean by "knowing cakes and ale"?
And his leer yesterday had been an offence! Why had he looked at her
like that? Did he--? Was it possible--! She wished she had spoken to
Lloyd about it. But no; it couldn't be; it was only his queer way; he
was half crazy, she believed. And it would do no good to speak to
Lloyd. The one thing she must not do, was to let any annoyance of hers
annoy him. Yet below her discomfort at Sam's sentimentality and his
grandfather's strange manner lay a deeper discomfort--a disturbance at
the very centres of her life.... She was afraid.