"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.
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