He thought, “She is too tired to talk,” and left half an hour sooner than he had intended.

She thought, “He is offended.  Or else—­he thinks me flighty.”

And that was all.

CHAPTER VII

Under a Blue Moon

It was early on another Saturday evening, a fortnight after that disastrous one, and Miss Quincey was taking the air in Primrose Hill Park.  She was walking to keep herself warm, for the breeze was brisk and cool.  There was a little stir and flutter in the trees and a little stir and flutter in her heart, for she had caught sight of Dr. Cautley in the distance.  He was coming round the corner of one of the intersecting walks, coming at a frantic pace, with the tails of his frock-coat waving in the wind.

He pulled himself up as he neared her and held out a friendly hand.

“That’s right, Miss Quincey.  I’m delighted to see you out.  You really are getting strong again, aren’t you?”

“Yes, thank you—­very well, very strong.”

Was it her fancy, or did his manner imply that he wanted to sink that humiliating episode of the tea-party and begin again where they had left off?  It might be so; his courtesy was so infinitely subtle.  He had actually turned and was walking her way now.

“And how is Sordello?” he asked, the tone of his inquiry suggesting that there was something seriously the matter with Sordello.

“Getting on.  Only fifty-six pages more.”

“You are advancing, Miss Quincey—­gaining on him by leaps and bounds.  You’re not overdoing it, I hope?”

“Oh no, I read a little in the evenings—­I have to keep up to the standard of the staff.  Indeed,” she added, turning with a sudden suicidal panic, “I ought to be at home and working now.”

“What?  On a half-holiday?  It is a half-holiday?”

“For some people—­not for me.”

His eyes—­she could not be mistaken—­were taking her in as they had done before.

“And why not for you?  Do you know, you’re looking horribly tired.  Suppose we sit down a bit.”

Miss Quincey admitted that it would be very nice.

“Hadn’t you better put your cape on—­the wind’s changing.”

She obeyed him.

“That’s hardly a thick enough wrap for this weather, is it?”

She assured him it was very warm, very comfortable.

“Do you know what I would like to do with you, Miss Quincey?”

“No.”

“I should like to pack you off somewhere—­anywhere—­for another three months’ holiday.”

“Another three months!  What would my pupils do, and what would Miss Cursiter say?”

It was part of the illusion that she conceived herself to be indispensable to Miss Cursiter.

“Confound Miss Cursiter!”

Evidently he felt strongly on the subject of Miss Cursiter.  He confounded her with such energy that the seat provided for them by the London County Council vibrated under it.  He stared sulkily out over the park a moment; he gave his cuffs a hitch as if he were going to fight somebody, and then—­he let himself go.