Palmerston drove away to hide the smile that teased the corners of his mouth.
"The good woman has the instincts of a chaperon, without the traditions," he reflected, letting his smile break into a laugh. "Her sympathy is with the weaker sex when it comes to a personal encounter. We may need her services yet, who knows?"
Malaga was a flag-station, and the shed which was supposed to shelter its occasional passengers from the heat of summer and the rain of winter was flooded with afternoon sunshine. Palmerston drove into the square shadow of the shed roof, and set his feet comfortably upon the dashboard while he waited. He was not aware of any very lively curiosity concerning the young woman for whom he was waiting. That he had formed some nebulous hypothesis of vulgarity was evidenced by his whimsical hope that her prevailing atmosphere would not be musk; aggressive perfumery of some sort seemed inevitable. He found himself wondering what trait in her father had led him to this deduction, and drifted idly about in the haze of heredity until the whistle of the locomotive warned him to withdraw his feet from their elevation and betake himself to the platform. Half a minute later the engine panted onward and the young man found himself, with uplifted hat, confronting a slender figure clad very much as he was, save for the skirt that fell in straight, dark folds to the ground.
"Miss Brownell?" inquired Palmerston smiling.
The young woman looked at him with evident surprise.
"Where is my father?" she asked abruptly.
"He was unable to come. He regretted it very much. I was so fortunate as to take his place. Allow me" – He stooped toward her satchel.
"Unable to come – is he ill?" pursued the girl, without moving.
"Oh, no," explained Palmerston hastily; "he is quite well. It was something else – some matter of business."
"Business!" repeated the young woman, with ineffable scorn.
She turned and walked rapidly toward the buggy. Palmerston followed with her satchel. She gave him a preoccupied "Thank you" as he assisted her to a seat and shielded her dress with the shabby robe.
"Do you know anything about this business of my father's?" she asked as they drove away.
"Very little; it is between him and Mr. Dysart, with whom I am boarding. Mr. Dysart has mentioned it to me." The young man spoke with evident reluctance. His companion turned her clear, untrammeled gaze upon him.
"You needn't be afraid to say what you think. Of course it is all nonsense," she said bitterly.
Palmerston colored under her intent gaze, and smiled faintly.
"I have said what I think to Mr. Dysart. Don't you really mean that I need not be afraid to say what you think?"
She was still looking at him, or rather at the place where he was. She turned a little more when he spoke, and regarded him as if he had suddenly materialized.
"I think it is all nonsense," she said gravely, as if she were answering a question. Then she turned away again and knitted her brows. Palmerston glanced covertly now and then at her profile, unwillingly aware of its beauty. She was handsome, strikingly, distinguishedly handsome, he said to himself; but there was something lacking. It must be femininity, since he felt the lack and was masculine. He smiled to think how much alike they must appear – he and this very gentlemanly young woman beside him. He thought of her soft felt hat and the cut of her dark-blue coat, and there arose in him a rigidly subdued impulse to offer her a cigar, to ask her if she had a daily paper about her, to – She turned upon him suddenly, her eyes full of tears.
"I am crying!" she exclaimed angrily. "How unspeakably silly!"
Palmerston's heart stopped with that nameless terror which the actual man always experiences when confronted by this phase of the ideal woman. He had been so serene, so comfortable, under the unexpected that there flashed into his mind a vague sense of injury that she should surprise him in this way with the expected. It was inconsiderate, inexcusable; then, with an inconsistency worthy of a better sex, he groped after an excuse for the inexcusable.
"You are very nervous – your journey has tired you – you are not strong," he pleaded.
"I am not nervous," insisted the young woman indignantly. "I have no nerves – I detest them. And I am quite as strong as you are." The young fellow winced. "It is not that. It is only because I cannot have my own way. I cannot make people do as I wish." She spoke with a heat that seemed to dry her tears.
Palmerston sank back and let the case go by default. "If you like that view of it better" —
"I like the truth," the girl broke in vehemently. "I am so tired of talk! Why must we always cover up the facts with a lot of platitudes?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Palmerston lightly. "I suppose there ought to be a skeleton of truth under all we say, but one doesn't need to rattle his bones to prove that he has them."
The girl laughed. Palmerston caught a glimpse of something reassuring in her laugh.
"It might not be cheerful," she admitted, "but it would be honest, and we might learn to like it. Besides, the truth is not always disagreeable."
"Wouldn't the monotony of candor appall us?" urged Palmerston. "Isn't it possible that our deceptions are all the individuality we have?"
"Heaven forbid!" said his companion curtly.
They drove on without speaking. The young man was obstinately averse to breaking the silence, which, nevertheless, annoyed him. He had a theory that feminine chatter was disagreeable. Just why he should feel aggrieved that this particular young woman did not talk to him he could not say. No doubt he would have resented with high disdain the suggestion that his vanity had been covertly feeding for years upon the anxiety of young women to make talk for his diversion.
"Do you think my father has closed his agreement with this man of whom you were speaking – this Mr. Dysart?" asked Miss Brownell, returning to the subject as if they had never left it.
"I am very certain he has not; at least, he had not this morning," rejoined Palmerston.
"I wish it might be prevented," she said earnestly, with a note of appeal.
"I have talked with Dysart, but my arguments fail to impress him; perhaps you may be more successful."
Palmerston was aware of responding to her tone rather than to her words. The girl shook her head.
"I can do nothing. People who have only common sense are at a terrible disadvantage when it comes to argument. I know it is all nonsense; but a great many people seem to prefer nonsense. I believe my father would die if he were reduced to bare facts."
"There is something in that," laughed Palmerston. "A theory makes a very comfortable mental garment, if it is roomy enough."
The young woman turned and glanced at him curiously, as if she could not divine what he was laughing at.
"They are like children – such people. My father is like a child. He does not live in the world; he cannot defend himself."
Palmerston's skepticism rushed into his face. The girl looked at him, and the color mounted to her forehead.
"You do not believe in him!" she broke out. "It cannot be – you cannot think – you do not know him!"
"I know very little of your father's theories, Miss Brownell," protested Palmerston. "You cannot blame me if I question them; you seem to question them yourself."
"His theories – I loathe them!" She spoke with angry emphasis. "It is not that; it is himself. I cannot bear to think that you – that any one" —
"Pardon me," interrupted Palmerston; "we were speaking of his theories. I have no desire to discuss your father."
He knew his tone was resentful. He found himself wondering whether it was an excess of egotism or of humility that made her ignore his personality.
"Why should we not discuss him?" she asked, turning her straightforward eyes upon him.
"Because"