It was just that he found a pleasure in stripping any poor
fallacy naked and crucifying it.
Presently a girl in a white frock came into the orchard. She
picked up an apple, bit it, and found it ripe. Holding it in her
hand she walked up to where the philosopher sat, and looked at
him. He did not stir. She took a bite out of the apple, munched
it, and swallowed it. The philosopher crucified a fallacy on the
fly leaf. The girl flung the apple away.
"Mr. Jerningham," said she, "are you very busy?"
The philosopher, pencil in hand, looked up.
"No, Miss May," said he, "not very."
"Because I want your opinion."
"In one moment," said the philosopher apologetically.
He turned back to the fly leaf and began to nail the last fallacy
a little tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him, first with
amused impatience, then with a vexed frown, finally with a
wistful regret. He was so very old for his age, she thought; he
could not be much beyond thirty; his hair was thick and full of
waves, his eyes bright and clear, his complexion not yet divested
of all youth's relics.
"Now, Miss May, I am at your service," said the philosopher, with
a lingering look at his impaled fallacy. And he closed the book,
keeping it, however, on his knee.
The girl sat down just opposite to him.
"It's a very important thing I want to ask you," she began,
tugging at a tuft of grass, "and it's very--difficult, and you
mustn't tell anyone I asked you; at least, I'd rather you
didn't.
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