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If you just once would assert your manliness, not lie there, supine, and " "Mr. Hopdyke," Ramsdell's voice said from the threshold; "Doctor Keltridge is downstairs, and is very anxious to see you about something most important. What shall I tell 'im?" Reed, his temples throbbing now in good earnest, smothered a Thank God, and turned to smile at Ramsdell.
I had never seen a girls' college, till I came here; but I can't help thinking it has its own disadvantages. I like them in the aggregate, Miss Keltridge; but I can't seem to get on with them individually. They are so distressingly young. I leave all that to Mr. Brenton." "He has been most successful," Olive assented tamely. "Yes. He has a way with women, as they say; he manages them by the ears.
The dryness was increasing. "It never had occurred to me to feel like that." "No?" Then all at once Kathryn dropped her antagonisms and smiled across at Olive. "Dear Miss Keltridge, I don't want to gossip; but, between old friends like ourselves, one can speak out. Has it ever seemed strange to you that we none of us know just what is wrong with Reed Opdyke? Or do you know?"
For that reason, no one appeared to find it at all strange that, from the day she put on long frocks, Olive Keltridge should preside, unchaperoned, at her father's table, should receive her father's guests without other protection from their wiles than that accorded by his presence. To be sure, that presence was not invariably dependable.
"Because," he answered tersely; "my common sense is in working order, even if my legs are not." And, with this downright assurance ringing in his ears and with the tragedy of its brave renunciation crowding out somewhat of his own hopefulness, Dolph Dennison went away in search of Olive Keltridge.
"Still, Reed, I rather grudge the time," Whittenden said to his host when, dinner over, that same night, he flung himself into a chair at Opdyke's side. "For all practical purposes, it was a wasted afternoon. I'd much rather have been here with you." "You'd have been quite de trop, old man. Olive Keltridge was here, two hours, and filled me up with all the gossip of the town.
Between the services, she spent the greater part of her time in the society of certain fellow scientists who lived not far away, and she emerged from their society so filled with zeal as to make small evangelistic forays into the borders of Saint Peter's Parish. Olive Keltridge was one victim. Ramsdell was another. Ramsdell, however, stated his own platform unmincingly.
There were innumerable conferences with Doctor Keltridge and Professor Opdyke; there was one discussion with the assembled trustees of the college; there was one hard hour of explanation before the assembled wardens of the church. Last of all came the talk with his curate whom, despite his bunny hood and his archaic theological tenets, Brenton had grown to love.
An instant later, though, her shame exchanged itself for astonishment. The rector's lady raised her brows, and spoke with studied carelessness. "Really, Miss Keltridge," she said calmly; "there is nothing so very unusual in the name of Kathryn." "Kathryn!"
In more senses than one, Scott Brenton's rest-time ended with his turning his back upon the country parish. "Well, what do you think about it, father?" Olive Keltridge queried, as she tapped the table with the corner of the note she was holding in her hand. The tapping, however, was no indication of any filial impatience.
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