The philosopher, pencil in hand, looked up.

"No, Miss May," said he, "not very."

"Because I want your opinion."

"In one moment," said the philosopher, apologetically.

He turned back to the fly-leaf and began to nail the last fallacy
a little tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him, first with
amused impatience, then with a vexed frown, finally with a wistful
regret. He was so very old for his age, she thought; he could
not be much beyond thirty; his hair was thick and full of waves,
his eyes bright and clear, his complexion not yet divested of all
youth's relics.

"Now, Miss May, I'm at your service," said the philosopher, with
a lingering look at his impaled fallacy; and he closed the book,
keeping it, however, on his knee.

The girl sat down just opposite to him.

"It's a very important thing I want to ask you," she began, tugging
at a tuft of grass, "and it's very--difficult, and you mustn't tell
any one I asked you; at least, I'd rather you didn't."

"I shall not speak of it; indeed, I shall probably not remember
it," said the philosopher.

"And you mustn't look at me, please, while I'm asking you."