“You should have reserved those remarks,” she said, “until you had found out what sort of evening meal we have.”

He could certainly say something, he thought.  Perhaps it might be some little fanciful story which would call up in her mind, without his appearing to intend it, some thought of his relationship to her as a lover—­that is, if she had ever had such a notion.  If this could be done, her face would betray the fact.  But, not being ready to make such a remark, he said:  “I beg your pardon, but do you really have suppers in the English fashion?”

“Oh, no,” answered Miss Roberta, “we don’t have a great cold joint, with old cheese, and pitchers of brown stout and ale, but neither do we content ourselves with thin bread and butter, and preserves.  We have coffee as well as tea, hot rolls, fleecy and light, hot batter bread made of our finest corn meal, hot biscuits and stewed fruit, with plenty of sweet milk and buttermilk; and, if anybody wants it, he can always have a slice of cold ham.”

“If I could only feel sure,” thought Mr Croft, “that she looked upon me merely as an acquaintance, I would cease to trouble my mind on this subject, and let everything go on as before.  But I am not sure, and I would rather not come here again until I am.”  “And at what hour,” he asked, “do you partake of a meal like that?”

“In summer time,” said Miss Roberta, “we have supper when it is dark enough to light the lamps.  My uncle dislikes very much to be deprived, by the advent of a meal, of the out-door enjoyment of a late afternoon, or, as we call it down here, the evening.”

“It would be easy enough,” thought Mr Croft, “for me to say something about my being suddenly obliged to go away, and then notice its effect upon her.  But, apart from the fact that I would not do anything so vulgar and commonplace, it would not advantage me in the slightest degree.  She would see through the flimsiness of my purpose, and, no matter how she looked upon me, would show nothing but a well-bred regret that I should be obliged to go away at such a pleasant season.”  “I think the hour for your supper,” said he, “is a very suitable one, but I am not sure that such a variety of hot bread would agree with me.”

“Did you ever see more healthy-looking ladies and gentlemen than you find in Virginia?” asked Miss March.

“It is not that I want to know if she looks favorably upon me,” said Lawrence Croft to himself, “for when I wish to discover that, I shall simply ask her.  What I wish now to know is whether, or not, she considers me at all as a lover.  There surely must be something I can say which will give me a clew.”  “The Virginians, as a rule,” he replied, “are certainly a very well-grown and vigorous race.”

“In spite of the hot bread,” she said with a smile.

Just then Mr Croft believed himself struck by a happy thought.  “You are not prepared, I suppose, to say, in consequence of it; and that recalls the fact that so much in this world happens in spite of things, instead of in consequence of them.”