your lease in the fall,” she answered. He started from his wicker chair.
“You cannot mean it, Miss Gould! You would not be so—so unkind, so unjust!”
“I should feel obliged to, Mr. Welles, and I should not feel unjust.”
He sank back into the yielding chair with a sigh. After all, her fascination had always lain in her great decision. Was it not illogical to expect her to fail to display it at such a crisis? There was a long silence. The sun sank lower and lower, the birds twittered happily around them. Miss Gould’s long white hook slipped in and out of the wool, and her lodger’s eyes followed it absently. After a while he rose, settled his white jacket elaborately, and half turned as if to go back to the house.
“I need not tell you how I regret this unfortunate decision of yours,” he said politely, with a slight touch of the hauteur
