At first he was unconscious of her presence. She was but another
human atom, and of no more interest to him than the chair on which
she sat. Mechanically he declined one or two things she passed to
him, and in an absent manner replied to the few casual remarks by
which she sought to engage him in conversation. At last she said,
in a voice that was indescribably winning and sympathetic:
"Mr. Mayhew, your sultry week in town has wearied you. Our country
air will do you good."
There was so much more in her tones than in her words that he
turned to look at her, and then, for the first time, became aware
that he was not sitting at the side of an ordinary, well-bred lady.
"Country air is good as far as it goes," he said slowly, scanning
her face as he spoke; "but it does not make much difference with
me."
"There are other remedies," she resumed in her low gentle tone,
"which, like the air, are not exactly tangible, and yet are more
potent."
"Indeed," he said, the dawning interest deepening in his face;
"what are they?"
"I do not mean to tell you," she replied with a little piquant
nod and smile. "I've learned better than those people who have a
dozen infallible medicines at their tongues' end for every trouble
under heaven.
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