The horse on which Mr Croft had ridden over from the Springs was tied to a fence near by, and he now seemed to indicate by his restless movements that it was quite time for the gentleman to go home; but with this opinion Mr Croft decidedly differed.  He had had a long walk with the lady and plenty of opportunities to say anything that he might choose, but still there was something very important which had not been said, and which Mr Croft very much wished to say before he left Miss Roberta that afternoon.  His only reason for hesitation was the fact that he did not know what he wished to say.

He was a man who always kept a lookout on the bows of his daily action; in storm or in calm, in fog or in bright sunshine that lookout must be at his post; and upon his reports it depended whether Mr Croft set more sail, put on more steam, reversed his engine, or anchored his vessel.  A report from this lookout was what he hoped to elicit by the remark which he wished to make.  He desired greatly to know whether Miss Roberta March looked upon him in the light of a lover, or in that of an intimate acquaintance, whose present intimacy depended a good deal upon the propinquity of Midbranch and the Green Sulphur Springs.  He had endeavored to produce upon her mind the latter impression.  If he ever wished her to regard him as a lover he could do this in the easiest and most straightforward way, but the other procedure was much more difficult, and he was not certain that he had succeeded in it.  How to find out in what light she viewed him without allowing the lady to perceive his purpose was a very delicate operation.

“I wish,” said Miss Roberta, poking with the end of her parasol at some half-withered wild flowers which lay on the steps beneath her, “that you would change your mind, and take supper with us.”

Mr Croft’s mind was very busy in endeavoring to think of some casual remark, some observation regarding man, nature, or society, or even an anecdote or historical incident, which, if brought into the conversation, might produce upon the lady’s countenance some shade of expression, or some variation in her tone or words which would give him the information he sought for.  But what he said was:  “Are they really suppers that you have, or are they only teas?”

“Now I know,” said the lady, “why you have sometimes taken dinner with us, but never supper.  You were afraid that it would be a tea.”

Lawrence Croft was thinking that if this girl believed that he was in love with her, it would make a great deal of difference in his present course of action.  If such were the case, he ought not to come here so often, or, in fact, he ought not to come at all, until he had decided for himself what he was going to do.  But what could he say that would cause her, for the briefest moment, to unveil her idea of himself.  “I never could endure,” he said, “those meals which consist of thin shavings of bread with thick plasters of butter, aided and abetted by sweet cakes, preserves, and tea.”