At table he was unusually quiet.  Martha asked him why he looked at her so queerly.

“Eh?  Do I?” he exclaimed.  “Oh, I’m so sorry!  I wasn’t aware.  I beg your pardon.  I hope you’re not offended.”

She laughed.  “Mercy me,” she said, “I’m not offended so easily.  And if your absent-mindedness could make me take offense, Mr. Bangs, we should have quarreled long ago.  But I should like to know what you were thinkin’ about.  You sat there and stared at me and your face was as solemn as—­as Luce’s when it is gettin’ past his dinner time.  You looked as if you had lost your best friend.”

He did not smile even then.  Nor did he make any reply worth noting.  As a matter of fact, he was awakening to the realization that if he accepted the call to Egypt—­and accept he must, of course—­he would in solemn truth lose his best friend.  Or, if not lose her exactly, go away and leave her for so long that it amounted to a loss.  He must leave this dining room, with its plants and old pictures and quaint homeliness, leave the little Phipps’ cottage, leave its owner. . . .  The dazzling visions of sands and sphinxes, of palms and pyramids, suddenly lost their dazzle.  The excitement caused by the reading of the letter dulled and deadened.  The conviction which had come upon him so often of late returned with redoubled vigor, the conviction that he had been happy where he was and would never be as happy anywhere else.  Egypt, even beloved Egypt with all the new and wonderful opportunities it now offered him, did not appeal.  The thought was alarming.  When he did not want to go to Egypt there must be something the matter with him, something serious.  What was it?

After dinner he told her of the offer which had been made him.

“Perhaps you would like to see the letter,” he said.  “It is a very kind one.  Dear me, yes.  Much kinder than I deserve.”

She read the long letter through, read the details of the great plan from end to end.  When the reading was finished she sat silent, the letter in her lap, and she did not look at him.

“They are very kind to me, aren’t they?” he said, gravely.  “Very kind and generous.  The thought of it quite—­ah—­overwhelms me, really.  Of course, I know what they say concerning my—­ah—­the value of my service is quite ridiculous, overstated and—­and all that, but they do that thinking to please me, I suppose.  I . . .  Why—­why, Miss Martha, you—­you’re not—­”

She smiled, a rather misty smile.  “No,” she said, “I’m not.  But I think I shall if you keep on talkin’ in that way.”

“But—­but, Miss Martha, I’m so sorry.  I assure you I did not mean to hurt your feelings.  If I have said anything to distress you I’m very sorry.  Dear me, dear me!  What did I say?  I—­”

She motioned him to silence.  “Hush, hush!” she begged.  “You didn’t say anything, of course, except what you always say—­that what you have done doesn’t amount to anything and that you aren’t of any consequence and—­all that.  You always say it, and you believe it, too.  When I read this letter, Mr. Bangs, and found that they know what you really are, that they had found you out just as—­as some of your other friends have, it—­it—­”