CHAPTER IV
A DECLARATION
“_I have not seen_
_So likely an ambassador of love_.”
—“Merchant of Venice.”
Parker mounted the steps lightly and rang the bell. Marguerite’s
kindness of the night before, which was in marked contrast to her
coolness at the MacFarland dance, had led him to believe that he was not
wholly without interest to her, and her invitation that he should call
upon her had given him a sincere pleasure; in fact, he wondered that he
should be so pleased over so trivial a circumstance.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my heart again,” he said to himself. “That is,
again if I ever lost it before,” he added.
And his mind reverted to a little episode at Bar Harbor the summer
before, and he was not sorry to feel that that wound was cured—though, as
a matter of fact, it had never amounted to more than a scratch.
A moment later the door opened, and Parker entered, inquiring for Miss
Andrews as he did so.
“I do not know, but I will see if Miss Andrews is at home,” said the
butler, ushering him into the parlor. That imposing individual knew
quite well that Miss Andrews was at home, but he also knew that it was
not his place to say so until the young lady had personally assured him
of the facts in so far as they related to this particular caller. All
went well for Parker, however. Miss Andrews consented to be at home to
him, and five minutes later she entered the drawing room where Parker was
seated.
“How do you do?” she said, frigidly, ignoring his outstretched hand.
(“Think of that, will you?” interposed Harley. “He’d come to propose,
and was to leave engaged, and she insists upon opening upon him frigidly,
ignoring his outstretched hand.”