He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. He laughed reassuringly. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. . He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. 1. .
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