Gregory had an habitual severity with his own behavior which did not stop there, but was always passing on to the behavior of others; and his days went by in alternate offence and reparation to those he had to do with. He had to do chiefly with the dining-room girls, whose susceptibilities were such that they kept about their work bathed in tears or suffused with anger much of the time. He was not only good-looking but he was a college student, and their feelings were ready to bud toward him in tender efflorescence, but he kept them cropped and blighted by his curt words and impatient manner. Some of them loved him for the hurts he did them, and some hated him, but all agreed fondly or furiously that he was too cross for anything. They were mostly young school-mistresses, and whether they were of a soft and amorous make, or of a forbidding temper, they knew enough in spite of their hurts to value a young fellow whose thoughts were not running upon girls all the time. Women, even in their spring-time, like men to treat them as if they had souls as well as hearts, and it was a saving grace in Gregory that he treated them all, the silliest of them, as if they had souls. Very likely they responded more with their hearts than with their souls, but they were aware that this was not his fault.

The girls that waited at table saw that he did not distinguish in manner between them and the girls whom they served. The knot between his brows did not dissolve in the smiling gratitude of the young ladies whom he preceded to their places, and pulled out their chairs for, any more than in the blandishments of a waitress who thanked him for some correction.

They owned when he had been harshest that no one could be kinder if he saw a girl really trying, or more patient with well meaning stupidity, but some things fretted him, and he was as apt to correct a girl in her grammar as in her table service. Out of work hours, if he met any of them, he recognized them with deferential politeness; but he shunned occasions of encounter with them as distinctly as he avoided the ladies among the hotel guests. Some of the table girls pitied his loneliness, and once they proposed that he should read to them on the back piazza in the leisure of their mid-afternoons. He said that he had to keep up with his studies in all the time he could get; he treated their request with grave civility, but they felt his refusal to be final.

He was seen very little about the house outside of his own place and function, and he was scarcely known to consort with anyone but Fane, who celebrated his high sense of the honor to the lady-guests; but if any of these would have been willing to show Gregory that they considered his work to get an education as something that redeemed itself from discredit through the nobility of its object, he gave them no chance to do so.

The afternoon following their talk about Clementina, Gregory looked in for Fane behind the letter boxes, but did not find him, and the girl herself came round from the front to say that he was out buying, but would be back now, very soon; it was occasionally the clerk's business to forage among the farmers for the lighter supplies, such as eggs, and butter, and poultry, and this was the buying that Clementina meant. “Very well, I'll wait here for him a little while,” Gregory answered.

“So do,” said Clementina, in a formula which she thought polite; but she saw the frown with which Gregory took a Greek book from his pocket, and she hurried round in front of the boxes again, wondering how she could have displeased him. She put her face in sight a moment to explain, “I have got to be here and give out the lettas till Mr. Fane gets back,” and then withdrew it. He tried to lose himself in his book, but her tender voice spoke from time to time beyond the boxes, and Gregory kept listening for Clementina to say, “No'm, there a'n't. Perhaps, the'e'll be something the next mail,” and “Yes'm, he'e's one, and I guess this paper is for some of youa folks, too.”

Gregory shut his book with a sudden bang at last and jumped to his feet, to go away.

The girl came running round the corner of the boxes. “Oh! I thought something had happened.”

“No, nothing has happened,” said Gregory, with a sort of violence; which was heightened by a sense of the rings and tendrils of loose hair springing from the mass that defined her pretty head. “Don't you know that you oughtn't to say 'No'm' and 'Yes'm?”' he demanded, bitterly, and then he expected to see the water come into her eyes, or the fire into her cheeks.

Clementina merely looked interested. “Did I say that? I meant to say Yes, ma'am and No, ma'am; but I keep forgetting.”

“You oughtn't to say anything!” Gregory answered savagely, “Just say Yes, and No, and let your voice do the rest.”

“Oh!” said the girl, with the gentlest abeyance, as if charmed with the novelty of the idea. “I should be afraid it wasn't polite.”

Gregory took an even brutal tone. It seemed to him as if he were forced to hurt her feelings. But his words, in spite of his tone, were not brutal; they might have even been thought flattering. “The politeness is in the manner, and you don't need anything but your manner.”

“Do you think so, truly?” asked the girl joyously. “I should like to try it once!”

He frowned again. “I've no business to criticise your way of speaking.”

“Oh yes'm—yes, ma'am; sir, I mean; I mean, Oh, yes, indeed! The'a! It does sound just as well, don't it?” Clementina laughed in triumph at the outcome of her efforts, so that a reluctant visional smile came upon Gregory's face, too. “I'm very mach obliged to you, Mr. Gregory—I shall always want to do it, if it's the right way.”

“It's the right way,” said Gregory coldly.

“And don't they,” she urged, “don't they really say Sir and Ma'am, whe'e—whe'e you came from?”

He said gloomily, “Not ladies and gentlemen. Servants do. Waiters—like me.” He inflicted this stab to his pride with savage fortitude and he bore with self-scorn the pursuit of her innocent curiosity.

“But I thought—I thought you was a college student.”

“Were,” Gregory corrected her, involuntarily, and she said, “Were, I mean.”

“I'm a student at college, and here I'm a servant! It's all right!” he said with a suppressed gritting of the teeth; and he added, “My Master was the servant of the meanest, and I must—I beg your pardon for meddling with your manner of speaking—”

“Oh, I'm very much obliged to you; indeed I am. And I shall not care if you tell me of anything that's out of the way in my talking,” said Clementina, generously.

“Thank you; I think I won't wait any longer for Mr. Fane.”

“Why, I'm su'a he'll be back very soon, now. I'll try not to disturb you any moa.”

Gregory turned from taking some steps towards the door, and said, “I wish you would tell Mr. Fane something.”

“For you? Why, suttainly!”

“No. For you. Tell him that it's all right about his calling you Boss.”

The indignant color came into Clementina's face. “He had no business to call me that.”

“No; and he doesn't think he had, now. He's truly sorry for it.”

“I'll see,” said Clementina.

She had not seen by the time Fane got back. She received his apologies for being gone so long coldly, and went away to Mrs. Atwell, whom she told what had passed between Gregory and herself.

“Is he truly so proud?” she asked.

“He's a very good young man,” said Mrs. Atwell, “but I guess he's proud. He can't help it, but you can see he fights against it. If I was you, Clem, I wouldn't say anything to the guls about it.”

“Oh, no'm—I mean, no, indeed. I shouldn't think of it. But don't you think that was funny, his bringing in Christ, that way?”

“Well, he's going to be a minister, you know.”

“Is he really?” Clementina was a while silent. At last she said, “Don't you think Mr. Gregory has a good many freckles?”

“Well, them red-complected kind is liable to freckle,” said Mrs. Atwell, judicially.

After rather a long pause for both of them, Clementina asked, “Do you think it would be nice for me to ask Mr. Gregory about things, when I wasn't suttain?”

“Like what?”

“Oh-wo'ds, and pronunciation; and books to read.”

“Why, I presume he'd love to have you. He's always correctin' the guls; I see him take up a book one day, that one of 'em was readin', and when she as't him about it, he said it was rubbage. I guess you couldn't have a betta guide.”

“Well, that was what I was thinking. I guess I sha'n't do it, though. I sh'd neva have the courage.” Clementina laughed and then fell rather seriously silent again.