in the Apple
It was a charmingly mild and balmy day. The sun shone beyond the
orchard, and the shade was cool inside. A light breeze stirred the
boughs of the old apple-tree under which the philosopher sat. None of
these things did the philosopher notice, unless it might be when the
wind blew about the leaves of the large volume on his knees, and he
had to find his place again. Then he would exclaim against the wind,
shuffle the leaves till he got the right page, and settle to his
reading. The book was a treatise on ontology; it was written by
another philosopher, a friend of this philosopher's; it bristled with
fallacies, and this philosopher was discovering them all, and noting
them on the fly-leaf at the end. He was not going to review the book
(as some might have thought from his behaviour), or even to answer it
in a work of his own. 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
“Now, Miss May, I'm 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
any one I asked you; at least, I'd rather you didn't.”
“I shall not speak of it; indeed, I shall probably not remember
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 your
pardon,” said the philosopher, apologetically.
She pulled the tuft of grass right out of the ground, and flung it
from her with all her force.
“Suppose a man—“ she began. “No, that's not right.”
“You can take any hypothesis you please,” observed the philosopher,
“but you must verify it afterward, of course.”
“Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl, Mr. Jerningham—I wish you
“It was only to show that I followed you.”
“Oh, of course you 'follow me,' as you call it. Suppose a girl 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 of men
might be in love with—“
“Oh, we can leave the rest out,” said Miss May, with a sudden
dimple; “they don't matter.”
“Very well,” said the philosopher, “if they are irrelevant we will
put them aside.”
“Suppose, then, that one of these men was, oh, awfully in
love with the girl, and—and proposed, you know—”
“A moment!” said the philosopher, opening a note-book. “Let me take
down his proposition. What was it?”
“Why, proposed to her—asked her to marry him,” said the girl, with
“Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the word.
“The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him,
and all that, you know.”
“That simplifies the problem,” said the philosopher, nodding again.
“But she's not in—in love with him, you know. She doesn't
really 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 you
“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, with just 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 put that 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 him tremendously; she
thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, 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 could be
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.”
“But,” continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, “he
doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he likes
“Well, doesn't dislike her?” suggested the philosopher. “Shall we
call him indifferent?”
“I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks
about it, you know. But she—she's pretty. You needn't put that
“I was not about to do so,” observed the philosopher.
“She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and—and she 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 if he ever
thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn'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.”
“Most men, no doubt,” conceded the philosopher.
“Well then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you know,
Mr. Jerningham. It's in —in a novel I was reading.” She said this
hastily, and blushed as she spoke.
“Dear me! And it's quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The
question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the
man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a
“Yes; just a liking. He's just a friend.”
“Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she loves ex—”
“That's not it. How can she marry him? He hasn't—he hasn't asked
her, you see.”
“True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he
has asked her. She would then have to consider which marriage would
probably be productive of the greater sum total of—”
“Oh, but you needn't consider that.”
“But it seems the best logical order. We can afterward make
allowance for the element of uncertainty caused by—”
“Oh no; I don't want it like that. I know perfectly well which
she'd do if he—the other man you know—asked her.”
“You apprehend that—”
“Never mind what I 'apprehend.' Take it as I told you.”
“Very good. A has asked her hand, B has not.”
“May I take it that, but for the disturbing influence of B, A would
be a satisfactory—er—candidate?”
“Ye—es; I think so.”
“She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if she
“Ye—es; not perfect, because of—B, you know.”
“Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it
“I don't—well, perhaps.”
“On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to postulate a higher
degree of happiness for her?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham—much higher.”
“For both of them?”
“For her. Never mind him.”
“Very well. That again simplifies the problem. But his asking her
is a contingency only?”
“Yes, that's all.”
The philosopher spread out his hands.
“My dear young lady,” he said, “it becomes a question of degree.
How probable or improbable is it?”
“I don't know; not very probable—unless—”
“Unless he did happen to notice, you know.”
“Ah, yes; we supposed that, if he thought of it, he would probably
take the desired step—at least, that he might be led to do so. Could
she not—er—indicate her preference?”
“She might try—no, she couldn't do much. You see, he—he doesn't
think about such things.”
“I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss May, that in that
very fact we find our solution.”
“Do we?” she asked.
“I think so. He has evidently no natural inclination toward
her—perhaps not toward marriage at all. Any feeling aroused in him
would be necessarily shallow and, in a measure, artificial, and in
all likelihood purely temporary. Moreover, if she took steps to arouse
his attention one of two things would be likely to happen. Are you
“Yes, Mr. Jerningham.”
“Either he would be repelled by her overtures, —which you must
admit is not improbable,—and then the position would be unpleasant,
and even degrading, for her; or, on the other hand, he might, through
a misplaced feeling of gallantry—”
“Through a mistaken idea of politeness, or a mistaken view of what
was kind, allow himself to be drawn into a connection for which he
had no genuine liking. You agree with me that one or other of these
things would be likely?”
“Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come to care for her.”
“Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it's an extremely
fanciful one. No, she need not marry A; but she must let B alone.”
The philosopher closed his book, took off his glasses, wiped them,
replaced them, and leaned back against the trunk of the apple-tree.
The girl picked a dandelion in pieces. After a long pause she asked:
“You think B's feelings wouldn't be at all likely to—to change?”
“That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able man,
with intellectual interests which engross him—a man who has chosen
his path in life—a man to whom women's society is not a necessity—”
“He's just like that,” said the girl, and she bit the head off a
“Then,” said the philosopher, “I see not the least reason for
supposing that his feelings will change.”
“And would you advise her to marry the other —A?”
“Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we made
A a good fellow), he is a suitable match, his love for her is true
“Yes—and—er—extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to
hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and stable
affection. She will get rid of her folly about B, and make A a good
wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel I should make
her marry A, and I should call that a happy ending.”
A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher.
“Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?” he asked, with
his finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology.
“Yes, I think so. I hope I haven't bored you?”
“I've enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that novels
raised points of such psychological interest. I must find time to
The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face,
her profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the paddock
that lay brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard,
she asked in low slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap:
“Don't you think that perhaps if B found out afterward—when she
had married A, you know—that she had cared for him so very, very
much, he might be a little sorry?”
“If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply.”
“I mean—sorry on his own account; that—that he had thrown away
all that, you know?”
The philosopher looked meditative.
“I think,” he pronounced, “that it is very possible he would. I
can well imagine it.”
“He might never find anybody to love him like that again,” she
said, gazing on the gleaming paddock.
“He probably would not,” agreed the philosopher.
“And—and most people like being loved, don't they?”
“To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May.”
“Yes, almost,” she said, with a dreary little smile. “You see,
he'll get old, and—and have no one to look after him.”
“And no home.”
“Well, in a sense, none,” corrected the philosopher, smiling. “But
really you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss
“Yes,” she whispered, just audibly.
“And all your terrors are before me.”
“Oh, we needn't have that 'unless,'“ laughed the philosopher,
cheerfully. “There's no 'unless' about it, Miss May.”
The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the
philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and at the thought
of what lay at her tongue's tip her face grew red. But the philosopher
was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on the
“A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure,” said he.
Her blush faded away into paleness; her lips closed. Without
speaking, she turned and walked slowly away, her head drooping. The
philosopher heard the rustle of her skirt in the long grass of the
orchard; he watched her for a few moments.
“A pretty, graceful creature,” said he, with a smile. Then he
opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped in a careful
forefinger to mark the fly-leaf.
The sun had passed mid-heaven and began to decline westward before
he finished the book. Then he stretched himself and looked at his
“Good gracious, two o'clock! I shall be late for lunch!” and he
hurried to his feet.
He was very late for lunch.
“Everything's cold,” wailed his hostess. “Where have you been, Mr.
“Only in the orchard-reading.”
“And you've missed May!”
“Missed Miss May? How do you mean? I had a long talk with her this
morning—a most interesting talk.”
“But you weren't here to say good-by. Now you don't mean to say
that you forgot that she was leaving by the two-o'clock train? What a
man you are!”
“Dear me! To think of my forgetting it!” said the philosopher,
“She told me to say good-bye to you for her.”
“She's very kind. I can't forgive myself.”
His hostess looked at him for a moment; then she sighed, and
smiled, and sighed again.
“Have you everything you want?” she asked.
“Everything, thank you,” said he, sitting down opposite the cheese,
and propping his book (he thought he would just run through the last
chapter again) against the loaf; “everything in the world that I want,
His hostess did not tell him that the girl had come in from the
apple orchard and run hastily upstairs, lest her friend should see
what her friend did see in her eyes. So that he had no suspicion at
all that he had received an offer of marriage—and refused it. And he
did not refer to anything of that sort when he paused once in his
reading and exclaimed:
“I'm really sorry I missed Miss May. That was an interesting case
of hers. But I gave the right answer; the girl ought to marry A.”
And so the girl did.