“You owe me no thanks,” said he, in a low murmur, and without raising his eyes. “Far from it.” A mysterious feeling crept over Mrs. Poythress. Was it his eyes? Was it his voice? Or his manner? Was it something? Was it nothing? “I do feel rather weak. Perhaps I was a little jarred,” said she; “may I lean on your strong arm?” Bending low, he offered her his arm as a courtier would to a queen, but without the courtier’s smile; and they moved slowly towards the house. “He is a gentleman of the old school,” thought Mr. Whacker. “One would think,” mused Mary, “that he was already an accepted son-in-law.” “A case of nubbin,” chirped Alice (a phrase I leave as a kind of sample bone of contention to the philologists of your day, my boy). She was leaning on Charley’s arm, and raised her eyes inquiringly. “Somehow, though,” added she, interpreting his silence as dissent, “somehow, I don’t altogether believe so.” No reply. She looked up again, and detected a faintly rippling smile struggling with the lines of his well-schooled features. He had heard her, then,—and half amused, half indignant, she gave his arm so sudden and vigorous a pull as visibly to disturb his balance. “Why don’t you answer people?” said she, a little testily. “You would not have a man hasty? Is it not best to treat people’s remarks as a hunter does wild ducks? Save your ammunition. Don’t fire at the first that comes; wait till you can bring down three or four at a shot. Besides, it is rude.” “Rude?” “Yes, to interrupt the current of people’s observations.” “Well, you must interrupt the current of mine when I speak to you.” “The tr-tr-tr-ouble is I’d rather hear you talk than talk myself.” Three persons, walking behind this couple, had overheard these words,—to wit, Jones, Jones’s girl, and myself. By Jones’s girl I would be understood as referring to one of our Christmas party, through whose influence Jones had been led to infer that the lectures at the University immediately after Christmas were of comparatively minor importance. We were all struck by the absence of banter in Charley’s last remark. Jones looked at me, and opening wide his eyes, and dropping his chin, formed his mouth into a perfect circle. “The old fox is caught,” whispered he; and taking another look, “sure pop!” he added,—an inelegant expression which I record with regret, and only in the interests of historic accuracy. Jones’s girl, while we smiled at Charley, had her woman’s eyes on Alice, and with raised brows and a nod directed our attention to her. Alice had obviously noticed the peculiar tone of Charley’s voice, and coyly dropped her eyes. “Mr. Frobisher,” she began, “I must beg your pardon.” “For what, pray?” “For my rudeness in pulling your arm, just now!” “Oh, don’t speak of it,” and then a merry twinkle coming into his eyes, “it didn’t hurt a bit. I rather liked it. D-d-d-d-o it again.”