t of his sails, so to speak, and then of whipping off
his hat, if anything with sails can wear a hat, and going up to her
with his heart in his eyes. He always went straight to her and stopped
suddenly about two feet away, trying to think of something ordinary to
say. Because the extraordinary thing he wanted to say was always on the
end of his tongue.

But this day he didn't light up when he saw her. He went through all
the other motions, but his mouth was set in a straight line, and when he
came close to her and looked down his eyes were hard.

It's been my experience of men that the younger they are the harder they
take things and the more uncompromising they are. It takes a good many
years and some pretty hard knocks to make people tolerant.

"I was looking for you," he said to her. "The bishop has just told me.
There are no obstacles now."

"None," she said, looking up at him with wretchedness in her eyes, if he
had only seen. "I am very happy."

"She was just saying," I said bitterly, "how grateful she was to both of
us."

"I don't understand."

"It is not hard to understand," she said, smiling. I wanted to slap her.
"Father was unreasonable because he was ill. You have made him well. I
can never thank you enough."

But she rather overdid the joy part of it, and he leaned over and looked
in her face.

"I think I'm stupid," he said. "I know I'm unhappy. But isn't that what
I was to do--to make them well if I could?"

"How could anybody know--" she began angrily, and then stopped. "You
have done even more," she said sweetly. "You've turned them into
cherubims and seraphims. Butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. Ugh! How
I hate amiability raised to the NTH power!"

He smiled. I think it was getting through his thick man's skull that she
wasn't so happy as she should have been, and he was thrilled through and
through.

"My amiability must be the reason you dislike me!" he suggested. They
had both forgotten me.

"Do I dislike you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "I never really
thought about it, but I'm sure I don't." She didn't look at him, she
looked at me. She knew I knew she lied.

His smile faded.

"Well," he said, "speaking of disliking amiability, you don't hate
yourself, I'm sure."

"You are wrong," she retorted, "I loathe myself." And she walked to the
window. He took a step or two after her.

"Why do it at all?" he asked in a low tone. "You don't love him--you
can't. And if it isn't