IN THE APPLE ORCHARD
By Anthony Hope
It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The sun shonebeyond the orchard， and the shade was cool inside. A lightbreeze stirred the boughs of the old apple-tree under whichthe philosopher sat. None of these things did the philosophernotice， unless it might be when the wind blew about the leavesof the large volume on his knees， and he had to find his placeagain. Then he would exclaim against the wind， shuffle theleaves till he got the right page， and settle to his reading. Thebook was a treatise on ontology； it was written by anotherphilosopher， a friend of this philosopher’s； it bristled withfallacies， and this philosopher was discovering them all，and noting them on the fly-leaf at the end. He was not goingto review the book （as some might have thought from hisbehaviour）， or even to answer it in a work of his own. It wasjust that he found a pleasure in stripping any poor fallacynaked and crucifying it. Presently a girl in a white frock cameinto the orchard. She picked up an apple， bit it， and foundit ripe. Holding it in her hand， she walked up to where thephilosopher sat， and looked at him. He did not stir. She tooka bite out of the apple， munched it， and swallowed it. Thephilosopher crucified a fallacy on the fly-leaf. The girl flungthe 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 lastfallacy a little tighter to the cross. The girl regarded him， firstwith amused impatience， then with a vexed frown， finally witha wistful regret. He was so very old for his age， she thought；he could not be much beyond thirty； his hair was thick andfull of waves， his eyes bright and clear， his complexion not yetdivested of all youth’s relics.
“Now， Miss May， I’m at your service，” said the philosopher，with a lingering look at his impaled fallacy； and he closed thebook， 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 youmustn’t tell any one I asked you； at least， I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I shall not speak of it； indeed， I shall probably notremember it，” said the philosopher.
“And you mustn’t look at me， please， while I’m asking you.”
“I don’t think I was looking at you， but if I was I beg yourpardon，” said the philosopher， apologetically.
She pulled the tuft of grass right out of the ground， and flungit from her with all her force.
“Suppose a man—” she began. “No， that’s not right.”
“You can take any hypothesis you please，” observed thephilosopher， “but you must verify it afterward， of course.”
“Oh， do let me go on. Suppose a girl， Mr. Jerningham—Iwish you wouldn’t nod.”
“It was only to show that I followed you.”
“Oh， of course you ‘follow me，’ as you call it. Suppose agirl had two lovers—you’re nodding again—or， I ought to say，suppose there were two men who might be in love with a girl.”
“Only two？” asked the philosopher. “You see， any number ofmenmight be in love with—”
“Oh， we can leave the rest out，” said Miss May， with asudden dimple； “they don’t matter.”
“Very well，” said the philosopher， “if they are irrelevant wewill put them aside.”
“Suppose， then， that one of these men was， oh， awfully inlove with the girl， and—and proposed， you know—”
“A moment！” said the philosopher， opening a note-book. “Letme take down his proposition. What was it？”
“Why， proposed to her—asked her to marry him，” said thegirl， with a stare.
“Dear me！ How stupid of me！ I forgot that special use of theword.
Yes？”
“The girl likes him pretty well， and her people approve ofhim， and all that， you know.”
“That simplifies the problem，” said the philosopher， noddingagain.
“But she’s not in—in love with him， you know. Shedoesn’treally care for him—much. Do you understand？”
“Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind.”
“Well then， suppose that there’s another man—what are youwriting？”
“I only put down （B）—like that，” pleaded the philosopher，meekly exhibiting his note-book.
She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation， withjust a smile somewhere in the background of it.
“Oh， you really are—” she exclaimed. “But let me go on.
The other man is a friend of the girl’s： he’s very clever—oh，fearfully clever—and he’s rather handsome. You needn’t putthat down.”
“It is certainly not very material，” admitted the philosopher，and he crossed out “handsome”； “clever” he left.
“And the girl is most awfully—she admires himtremendously； she thinks him just the greatest man that everlived， you know. And she—she—” The girl paused.
“I’m following，” said the philosopher， with pencil poised.
“She’d think it better than the whole world if —if she couldbe anything to him， you know.”
“You mean become his wife？”
“Well， of course I do—at least， I suppose I do.”
“You spoke rather vaguely， you know.”
The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied：
“Well， yes； I did mean become his wife.”
“Yes. Well？”
“But，” continued the girl， starting on another tuft of grass， “hedoesn’t think much about those things. He likes her. I think helikes her—”
“Well， doesn’t dislike her？” suggested the philosopher. “Shallwe call him indifferent？”
“I don’t know. Yes， rather indifferent. I don’t think he thinksabout it， you know. But she—she’s pretty. You needn’t put thatdown.”
“I was not about to do so，” observed the philosopher.
“She thinks life with him would be just heaven； and—andshe thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would—would be so proud of him， you see.”
“I see. Yes？”
“And—I don’t know how to put it， quite—she thinks that ifhe ever thought about it at all he might care for her； because hedoesn’t care for anybody else， and she’s pretty—”
“You said that before.”
“Oh dear， I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody，don’t they？ Some girl， I mean.”