I
A brief, unsatisfactory letter came Monday noon, while David was having
luncheon at Vine Cottage. It was written on Pullman paper, in a loose
scrawl. The train was four hours late, and of course there was no one
at the station to meet her. But then, she had not expected to be met.
Everything would be all right, she was sure. It was frightfully hot in
Detroit. She would not write again until Tuesday evening, since she and
Sylvia would be up to the ears in housecleaning.
“I can’t, somehow, feel that things are right,” David said, returning
the envelope to his pocket and drawing out another. “Vine acted so
strange while we were waiting in the station. I thought I ought to
go along to take care of her--but this work in the office is so
pressing--and I’m just compelled to go to Jacksonville for part of the
week. I told her, if she needed me....” He halted, his eyes receding.
“She flared out at me so fiercely that I didn’t say another word.
That’s where I ought to have been firm. But I never could understand
your mother, Lary.”
“None of us does, papa. What is the other letter?”
“It’s from Sylvia. I found it at the office.” Larimore read aloud:
“_Dear Papa_:
“I’m writing in a hurry, so that you can do me a favour. Mamma’s
special has just arrived, saying she can’t reach Detroit until
Tuesday noon--that you and Lary have upset all her plans. Well, now,
please, _please_, PLEASE upset them some more. Not that I don’t want
her to visit me; but it is terribly inconvenient now. The place is
torn up with painters and paper-hangers. The weather is a fright--and
Oliver cross as a bear. Mamma says she must be here to help me. But
you know how I hate to have her around when I have anything important
to do. If you can induce her to wait a week--really, I’m afraid
Oliver won’t be civil to her, in his present mood--you’ll do her and
us a big service.
“Your affectionate Daughter,