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 love—­” He remembered me suddenly and stopped.

“Please go on,” she said sweetly from the window.  “Do not mind Minnie.  She is my conscience, anyhow.  She is always scolding me; you might both scold in chorus.”

“I wouldn’t presume to scold.”

“Then give me a little advice and look superior and righteous.  I’m accustomed to that also.”

“As long as you are in this mood, I can’t give you anything but a very good day,” he said angrily, and went toward the door.  But when he had almost reached it he turned.

“I will say this,” he said, “you have known for three days that Mr. Thoburn was going to have a supper to-night, and you didn’t let us know.  You must have known his purpose.”