speaking, she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping.
The philosopher heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of
the orchard; he watched her for a few moments.

"A pretty, graceful creature," said he, with a smile. Then he opened
his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful
forefinger to mark the fly-leaf.

The sun had passed mid-heaven and began to decline westward before
he finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his
watch.

"Good gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!" and he
hurried to his feet.

He was very late for lunch.

"Everything's cold," wailed his hostess. "Where have you been,
Mr. Jerningham?"

"Only in the orchard-reading."

"And you've missed May!"

"Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her this
morning--a most interesting talk."

"But you weren't here to say good-by. Now you don't mean to say
that you forgot that she was leaving by the two-o'clock train? What
a man you are!"