Coincident with this, Mr. Bush evinced an inclination to
drift into talk on subjects nowise related to business. Hazel accepted
the tribute to her sex reluctantly, giving him no encouragement to
overstep the normal bounds of cordiality. She was absolutely sure of
herself and of her love for Jack Barrow. Furthermore, Mr. Andrew Bush,
though well preserved, was drawing close to fifty--and she was
twenty-two. That in itself reassured her. If he had been thirty, Miss
Weir might have felt herself upon dubious ground. He admired her as a
woman. She began to realize that. And no woman ever blames a man for
paying her that compliment, no matter what she may say to the contrary.
Particularly when he does not seek to annoy her by his admiration.
So long as Mr. Bush confined himself to affable conversation, to sundry
gifts of hothouse flowers, and only allowed his feelings outlet in
certain telltale glances when he thought she could not see. Hazel felt
disinclined to fly from what was at worst a possibility.
Thus the third month of her tenure drifted by, and beyond the telltale
glances aforesaid, Mr. Bush remained tentatively friendly and nothing
more. Hazel spent her Sundays as she had spent them for a year
past--with Jack Barrow; sometimes rambling afoot in the country or in
the park, sometimes indulging in the luxury of a hired buggy for a
drive.
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