Mac settled the point by taking the pen out of her hand and beginning to cut it, as quietly as Nicholas did on that "thrilling" occasion.Perhaps he was thinking of that, for he smiled as he asked, "Hard or soft?"Rose evidently had forgotten that the family of Squeers ever existed, for she answered: "Hard, please," in a voice to match."I'm glad to see you doing that," she added, taking courage from his composure and going as straight to her point as could be expected of a woman.
"And I am very glad to do it."
"I don't mean making pens, but the romance I advised," and she touched the closely written page before him, looking as if she would like to read it.
"That is my abstract on a lecture on the circulation of the blood,"he answered, kindly turning it so that she could see."I don't write romancesI'm living one," and he glanced up with the happy, hopeful expression which always made her feel as if he was heaping coals of fire on her head.
"I wish you wouldn't look at me in that wayit fidgets me," she said a little petulantly, for she had been out riding, and knew that she did not present a "spiritual" appearance after the frosty air had reddened nose as well as cheeks.
"I'll try to remember.It does itself before I know it.Perhaps this may mend matters." And, taking out the blue glasses he sometimes wore in the wind, he gravely put them on.
Rose could not help laughing, but his obedience only aggravated her, for she knew he could observe her all the better behind his ugly screen.
"No, it won'tthey are not becoming, and I don't want to look blue when I do not feel so," she said, finding it impossible to guess what he would do next or to help enjoying his peculiarities.
"But you don't to me, for in spite of the goggles everything is rose-colored now." And he pocketed the glasses without a murmur at the charming inconsistency of his idol.
"Really, Mac, I'm tired of this nonsense, it worries me and wastes your time.""Never worked harder.But does it really trouble you to know I love you?" he asked anxiously.
"Don't you see how cross it makes me?" And she walked away, feeling that things were not going as she intended to have them at all.
"I don't mind the thorns if I get the rose at last, and I still hope I may, some ten years hence," said this persistent suitor, quite undaunted by the prospect of a "long wait.""I think it is rather hard to be loved whether I like it or not," objected Rose, at a loss how to make any headway against such indomitable hopefulness.
"But you can't help it, nor can Iso I must go on doing it with all my heart till you marry, and thenwell, then I'm afraid I may hate somebody instead," and Mac spoilt the pen by an involuntary slash of his knife.
"Please don't, Mac!"
"Do which, love or hate?"
"Don't do eithergo and care for someone else; there are plenty of nice girls who will be glad to make you happy," said Rose, intent upon ending her disquiet in some way.
"That is too easy.I enjoy working for my blessings, and the harder I have to work, the more I value them when they come.""Then if I suddenly grew very kind, would you stop caring about me?"asked Rose, wondering if that treatment would free her from a passion which both touched and tormented her.
"Try and see." But there was a traitorous glimmer in Mac's eyes which plainly showed what a failure it would be.
"No, I'll get something to do, so absorbing I shall forget all about you.""Don't think about me if it troubles you," he said tenderly.
"I can't help it." Rose tried to catch back the words, but it was too late, and she added hastily, "That is, I cannot help wishing you would forget me.It is a great disappointment to find I was mistaken when I hoped such fine things of you.""Yes, you were very sure that it was love when it was poetry, and now you want poetry when I've nothing on hand but love.Will both together please you?""Try and see."
"I'll do my best.Anything else?" he asked, forgetting the small task she had given him in his eagerness to attempt the greater.
"Tell me one thing.I've often wanted to know, and now you speak of it I'll venture to ask.Did you care about me when you read Keats to me last summer?""No."
"When did you begin?" asked Rose, smiling in spite of herself at his unflattering honesty.
"How can I tell? Perhaps it did begin up there, though, for that talk set us writing, and the letters showed me what a beautiful soul you had.
