A Philanthropist | Page 6

to the exquisite effect of the slanting rays that struck the lawn in a dappled pattern of flickering leaf-shadows, and remarking the violet tinge thrown by the setting sun on the old spire below in the middle of the village. She did not answer immediately, and when she did it was in tones that he had learned from various slight experiments to regard as final.
"Mr. Welles," she said, bending upon him that direct and placid regard that rendered evasion difficult and paltering impossible, "things have come to a point;" and she narrated the scene of the morning.
"It is indeed a problem," observed her lodger gravely, "but what is one to do? It is just such questions as this that illustrate the futility--"
"There is no question about it, Mr. Welles," she interrupted gravely. "Tom was right and I was wrong. There is no use in my talking to him or anybody while I--while you--while things are as they are. You must make up your mind, Mr. Welles."
"But, great heavens, dear Miss Gould, what do you mean? What am I to make up my mind about? Am I to provide myself with an occupation, perhaps, for the sake of Tom Waters's principles? Or am I--"
"Yes. That is just it. You know what I have always felt, Mr. Welles, about it. But I never seemed to be able to make you see. Now, as I say, things have come to a point. You must do something."
"But this is absurd, Miss Gould! I am not a child, and surely nobody can dream of holding you in any way responsible--"
"I hold myself responsible," she replied simply, "and I have never approved of it--never!"
He shrugged his shoulders desperately. She was imperturbable; she was impossible; she was beyond argument or persuasion or ridicule.
"Suppose I say that I think the situation is absurd, and that I refuse to be placed at Mr. Waters's disposal?" he suggested with a furtive glance. She drew the ivory hook through the green meshes a little faster.
"I should be obliged to refuse to renew your lease in the fall," she answered. He started from his wicker chair.
"You cannot mean it, Miss Gould! You would not be so--so unkind, so unjust!"
"I should feel obliged to, Mr. Welles, and I should not feel unjust."
He sank back into the yielding chair with a sigh. After all, her fascination had always lain in her great decision. Was it not illogical to expect her to fail to display it at such a crisis? There was a long silence. The sun sank lower and lower, the birds twittered happily around them. Miss Gould's long white hook slipped in and out of the wool, and her lodger's eyes followed it absently. After a while he rose, settled his white jacket elaborately, and half turned as if to go back to the house.
"I need not tell you how I regret this unfortunate decision of yours," he said politely, with a slight touch of the hauteur that sat so well on his graceful person. "I can only say that I am sorry you yourself should regret it so little, and that I hope it will not disturb our pleasant acquaintance during the weeks that remain to me."
She bowed slightly with a dignified gesture that often served her as a reply, and he took a step toward her.
"Would we not better come in?" he suggested. "The sun is gone, and your dress is thin. Let me send Henry after the chairs," and his eyes dropped to her hands again. They were nearly hidden by the green wool, but the long needle quivered like a leaf in the wind; she could not pass it between the thread and her white forefinger. He hesitated a moment, glanced at her face, smiled inscrutably, and deliberately reseated himself.
"What in the world could I do, you see?" he inquired meditatively, as if that had been the subject under discussion for some time. "I can't make cardboard boxes, you know. It's perfectly useless, my going into a factory. Wheels and belts and things always give me the maddest longing to jump into them--I couldn't resist it! And that would be so unpleasant--"
She dropped her wool and clasped her hands under it.
"Oh, Mr. Welles," she cried eagerly, "how absurd! As if I meant that! As if I meant anything like it!"
"Had you thought of anything, then?" he asked interestedly.
She nodded gravely. "Why, yes," she said. "It wouldn't be right for me to say you must do something, and then offer no suggestions whatever, knowing as I do how you feel about it. I thought of such a good plan, and one that would be the best possible answer to Tom--"
"Oh, good heavens!" murmured her lodger, but she went on quickly: "You know I was going to open the soup-kitchen in