things to do which he isn't conscious of. The servants don't see them. I don't quite know what it is I do do, or what it is I'll ever do,—but whatever it is, he misses it, though of course he would never complain."
"It's you he needs," said Grover, "and that's easily understood."
"Perhaps." In her tone was deprecation of the value of anything she might radiate, also a hint of chagrin that no one but her father should make demands upon it. It was as though Rhoda's old magnetism were in danger of growing weak for lack of suitable objects on which to exercise it. As Grover looked at her he fancied he could see qualities in her which he had seen in typical old maids of New England: delicately tinted flowers that had been passed by for more gorgeous blooms, retaining their fragrance and grace and fastidiousness, lovely but pathetic. They ended by going to lectures in nice old pairs, subscribing to movements, waiting for a war to break out. As he had long ago confessed to Rhoda, he had rather a penchant for them.
"Oh I need you too," he assured her, with a sudden deep sincerity. "Perhaps more than I know."
Her steady regard was on him, and her eyes were braced against another hurt.
"But don't you see, Rhoda dear, I need the other things too—things you call pagan?"
Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and he had the panicky feeling that tears always aroused in him.
