VII.

Libby’s friends had broken up their camp on the beach, and had gone to a lake in the heart of the woods for the fishing.  He had taken a room at the Long Beach House, but he spent most of his time at Jocelyn’s, where he kept his mare for use in going upon errands for Mrs. Maynard.  Grace saw him constantly, and he was always doing little things for her with a divination of her unexpressed desires which women find too rarely in men.  He brought her flowers, which, after refusing them for Mrs. Maynard the first time, she accepted for herself.  He sometimes brought her books, the light sort which form the sentimental currency of young people, and she lent them round among the other ladies, who were insatiable of them.  She took a pleasure in these attentions, as if they had been for some one else.  In this alien sense she liked to be followed up with a chair to the point where she wished to sit; to have her hat fetched, or her shawl; to drop her work or her handkerchief, secure that it would be picked up for her.

It all interested her, and it was a relief from the circumstances that would have forbidden her to recognize it as gallantry, even if her own mind had not been so far from all thought of that.  His kindness followed often upon some application of hers for his advice or help, for she had fallen into the habit of going to him with difficulties.  He had a prompt common sense that made him very useful in emergencies, and a sympathy or an insight that was quick in suggestions and expedients.  Perhaps she overrated other qualities of his in her admiration of the practical readiness which kept his amiability from seeming weak.  But the practical had so often been the unattainable with her that it was not strange she should overrate it, and that she should rest upon it in him with a trust that included all he chose to do in her behalf.

“What is the matter, Mr. Libby?” she asked, as he came toward her.

“Is anything the matter?” he demanded in turn.

“Yes; you are looking downcast,” she cried reproachfully.

“I didn’t know that I mustn’t look downcast.  I did n’t suppose it would be very polite, under the circumstances, to go round looking as bobbish as I feel.”

“It’s the best thing you could possibly do.  But you’re not feeling very bobbish now.”  A woman respects the word a man uses, not because she would have chosen it, but because she thinks that he has an exact intention in it, which could not be reconveyed in a more feminine phrase.  In this way slang arises.  “Is n’t it time for Mr. Maynard to be here?”

“Yes,” he answered.  Then, “How did you know I was thinking of that?”

“I did n’t.  I only happened to think it was time.  What are you keeping back, Mr. Libby?” she pursued tremulously.

“Nothing, upon my honor.  I almost wish there were something to keep back.  But there is n’t anything.  There have n’t been any accidents reported.  And I should n’t keep anything back from you.”