“Oh, Mr. Hendrickson prefers the society of elderly ladies.  He spent the evening in sober confabulation with Mrs. Denison.  I have no doubt she was edified. I prefer maid to matron, at any time.  Old women are my horror.”

Too light and gay were the tones of Dexter to leave room for offence.  Hendrickson tried to rally himself, and retort with pleasant speech.  But his heart was too deeply interested,—­and his mood too serious for sport.  His smile did not improve the aspect of his countenance; and if he meant his words for witticisms, they were perceived as sarcasms.  Jessie was rather repelled than attracted—­all of which he saw.

Conscious that he was wholly misrepresenting himself in the young lady’s eyes, and feeling, moreover, that he was only spoiling pleasant company, Hendrickson, after a brief call, left the field clear to his rival.  Jessie accompanied him to the door.

“I shall be pleased to see you again, Mr. Hendrickson,” she said, in a tone of voice that betrayed something of her interest in him.

He turned to look into her eyes.  They sustained his penetrating gaze only for a moment and then her long lashes lay upon her crimsoning cheeks.

“Not if I show myself as stupid as I have been this morning,” said the young man.

“I have never thought you stupid, Mr. Hendrickson.”

“I am dull at times,” he said, hesitating, and slightly confused.  “Good morning!” he added, abruptly, and turned off without another look into the eyes that were upon him; and in which he would have read more than his heart had dared to hope for.

“What a boor!” exclaimed Dexter as Miss Loring returned to the parlor.

“Oh, no, not a boor, sir.  Far, very far from that,” answered the young lady promptly.

“Well, you don’t call him a gentleman, do you?”

“I have seen nothing that would rob him of the title,” said Miss Loring.

“A true gentleman will put on a gentlemanly exterior; for he is courteous by instinct—­and especially when ladies are present.  A true gentleman, moreover, is always at his ease.  Self-possession is one of the signs of a well bred man.  Hendrickson is not well bred.  Any one who has been at all in society, can perceive this at a glance.  Did you notice how he played with his watch chain; crossed his legs in sitting; took out his pencil case, and moved the slide noisily backwards and forwards; ran his fingers through his hair; exhibited his pocket-handkerchief half-a-dozen times in as many minutes, and went through sundry other performances of which no well bred man is guilty?  I marvel, that a young lady of your refinement can offer a word of apology for such things.  I see in it only kindness of heart; and this shall be your excuse.”

So gaily were the closing sentences uttered; yet with so manifest a regard softening the final words, that Miss Loring’s rising anger against the young man, went down and was extinguished in a pleasing consciousness of being an object of marked favor by one whose external attractions, at least, were of the highest order.