"
Her laughter at this absurdity was delightful; whether with him or at
him, it was infectious; he echoed it without misgivings.
"But--seriously--you're not sure, are you, Mr. Sybarite?"
"Only, Miss Lessing," he said soberly, "of my futile, my painfully
futile good will."
She seemed to start to speak, to think better of it, to fall silent in
sudden, shy constraint. He stole a side-long glance, troubled,
wondering if perhaps he had ventured too impudently, pursuing his whim
to the point of trespass upon the inviolable confines of her reserve.
She wore a sweet, grave face, _en profile_; her eyes veiled with long
lashes, the haunts of tender shadows; her mouth of gracious lips
unsmiling, a little triste. Compunctions smote him; with his crude and
clumsy banter he had contrived to tune her thoughts to sadness. He
would have given worlds to undo that blunder; to show her that he had
meant neither a rudeness nor a wish to desecrate her reticence, but
only an indirect assurance of gratitude to her for suffering him and
willingness to serve her within the compass of his poverty-stricken
powers. For in retrospect his invitation assumed the proportions of an
importunity, an egregious piece of presumption: so that he could have
groaned to contemplate it.
He didn't groan, save inwardly; but respected her silence, and held
his own in humility and mortification of spirit until they were near
the dooryard of their boarding-house.
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