A Philanthropist | Page 6

was evolving a hideous and useful
shawl. To her lodger, who alternately waved a palm-leaf fan and drank
lemonade, reading at intervals from a two-days-old newspaper, and
carrying on the desultory and amusing soliloquy that they were pleased
to consider conversation, she presented the most attractive of pictures.
"So firm, so positive, so wholesome," he murmured to himself, calling
her attention 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