The next day dawned wet and chilly. A fine mist hung in the trees, and
the leaves and grasses sagged under their burden of moisture. All the
crimson and gold had changed to brown and gray, and the birds and
crickets had evidently packed away their chirps and retired for the
season.
By the light of a flickering candle, Mr. D. Webster Opp partook of a
frugal breakfast. The luxurious habits of the Moore household had made
breakfast a movable feast depending upon the time of Aunt Tish's
arrival, and in establishing the new regime Mr. Opp had found it
necessary to prepare his own breakfast in order to make sure of getting
to the office before noon.
As he sipped his warmed-over coffee, with his elbows on the red
table-cloth, and his heels hooked on the rung of the chair, he recited
to himself in an undertone from a very large and imposing book which was
propped in front of him, the leaves held back on one side by a
candlestick and on the other by a salt-cellar. It was a book which Mr.
Opp was buying on subscription, and it was called "An Encyclopedia of
Wonder, Beauty, and Wisdom." It contained pellets of information on all
subjects, and Mr. Opp made it a practice to take several before
breakfast, and to repeat the dose at each meal as circumstances
permitted. "An editor," he told Nick, "has got to keep himself
instructed on all subjects. He has got to read wide and continuous."
As a rule he followed no special line in his pursuit of knowledge, but
with true catholicity of taste, took the items as they came, turning
from a strenuous round with "Abbeys and Abbots," to enter with fervor
into the wilds of "Abyssinia." The straw which served as bookmark
pointed to-day to "Ants," and ordinarily Mr. Opp would have attacked
the subject with all the enthusiasm of an entomologist. But even the
best regulated minds will at times play truant, and Mr. Opp's had taken
a flying leap and skipped six hundred and thirty-two pages, landing
recklessly in the middle of "Young Lochinvar." For the encyclopedia, in
its laudable endeavor not only to cover all intellectual requirements,
but also to add the crowning grace of culture, had appended a collection
of poems under the title "Favorites, Old and New."
Mr. Opp, thus a-wing on the winds of poesy, had sipped his tepid coffee
and nibbled his burnt toast in fine abstraction until he came upon a
selection which his soul recognized. He had found words to the music
that was ringing in his heart. It was then that he propped the book open
before him, and determined not to close it until he had made the lines
his own.
Later, as he trudged along the road to town, he repeated the verses to
himself, patiently referring again and again to the note-book in which
he had copied the first words of each line.
At the office door he regretfully dismounted from Pegasus, and
resolutely turned his attention to the business of the day. His desire
was to complete the week's work by noon, spend the afternoon at home in
necessary preparation for the coming guest, and have the following day,
which was Saturday, free to devote to the interest of the oil company.
In order to accomplish this, expedition was necessary, and Mr. Opp,
being more bountifully endowed by nature with energy than with any other
quality, fell to work with a will. His zeal, however, interfered with
his progress, and he found himself in the embarrassing condition of a
machine which is geared too high.
He was, moreover, a bit bruised and stiff from the unusual performances
of the previous day, and any sudden motion caused him to wince. But the
pain brought recollection, and recollection was instant balm.
It was hardly to be expected that things would deviate from their usual
custom of becoming involved at a critical time, so Mr. Opp was not
surprised when Nick was late and had to be spoken to, a task which the
editor always achieved with great difficulty. Then the printing-press
had an acute attack of indigestion, and no sooner was that relieved than
the appalling discovery was made that there were no more good "S's" in
the type drawer.
"Use dollar-marks for the next issue," directed Mr. Opp, "and I'll wire
immediate to the city."
"We're kinder short on 'I's' too," said Nick. "You take so many in your
articles."
Mr. Opp looked injured. "I very seldom or never begin on an 'I,'" he
said indignantly.
"You get 'em in somehow," said Nick. "Why, the editor over at Coreyville
even said 'Our Wife.'"
"Yes," said Mr. Opp, "I will, too,--that is--er--"
The telephone-bell covered his retreat.
"Hello!" he answered in a deep, incisive voice to counteract the effect
of his recent embarrassment, "Office of 'The Opp Eagle.' Mr. Toddlinger?
Yes, sir. You say you want your subscription stopped! Well, now, wait a
minute--see here, I can explain that--" but the other party had
evidently rung off.
Mr. Opp turned with exasperation upon Nick:
"Do you know what you went and did last week?" He rose and, going to the
file, consulted the top paper. "There it is," he said, "just identical
with what he asserted."
Nick followed the accusing finger and read:
"Mr. and Mrs. Toddlinger moved this week into their new horse and lot."
Before explanations could be entered into, there was a knock at the
door. When it was answered, a very small black boy was discovered
standing on the step. He wore a red shirt and a pair of ragged trousers,
between which strained relations existed, and on his head was the brim
of a hat from which the crown had long since departed. Hanging on a
twine string about his neck was a large onion.
He opened negotiations at once.
"Old Miss says fer you-all to stop dat frowin' papers an' sech like
trash outen de winder; dey blows over in our-all's yard."
He delivered the message in the same belligerent spirit with which it
had evidently been conveyed to him, and rolled his eyes at Mr. Opp as if
the offense had been personal.
Mr. Opp drew him in, and closed the door. "Did--er--did Mrs. Gusty send
you over to say that?" he asked anxiously.
"Yas, sir; she done havin' a mad spell. What's dat dere machine fer?"
"It's a printing-press. Do you think Mrs. Gusty is mad at me?"
"_Yas, sir_," emphatically; "she's mad at ever'body. She 'lows she gwine
lick me ef I don't tek keer. She done got de kitchen so full o'
switches hit looks jes lak outdoors."
"I don't think she would really whip you," said Mr. Opp, already feeling
the family responsibility.
"Naw, sir; she jes 'low she gwine to. What's in dem dere little
drawers?"
"Type," said Mr. Opp. "You go back and tell Mrs. Gusty that Mr. Opp says
he's very sorry to have caused her any inconvenience, and he'll send
over immediate and pick up them papers."
"You's kinder skeered of her, too, ain't you?" grinned the ambassador,
holding up one bare, black foot to the stove. "My mammy she sasses back,
but I runs."
"Well, you'd better run now," said Mr. Opp, who resented such insight;
"but, see here, what's that onion for?"
"To 'sorb disease," said the youth, with the air of one who is
promulgating some advanced theory in therapeutics; "hit ketches it 'stid
of you. My pappy weared a' onion fer put-near a whole year, an' hit
'sorbed all de diseases whut was hangin' round, an' nary a one never
teched him. An' one day my pappy he got hongry, an' he et dat dere
onion, an' whut you reckon? He up an' died!"
"Well, you go 'long now," said Mr. Opp, "and tell Mrs. Gusty just
exactly verbatim what I told you. What did you say was your name?"
"Val," said the boy.
Mr. Opp managed to slip a nickel into the dirty little hand without
Nick's seeing him. Nick was rather firm about these things, and
disapproved heartily of Mr. Opp's indiscriminate charities.
"Gimme nudder one an' I'll tell you de rest ob it," whispered Val on the
door-step.
Mr. Opp complied.
"Valentine Day Johnson," he announced with pride; then pocketing his
prize, he vanished around the corner of the house, forgetting his office
of plenipotentiary in his sudden accession of wealth.
Once more peace settled on the office, and Mr. Opp was engrossed in an
article on "The Greatest Petroleum Proposition South of the Mason and
Dixon Line," when an ominous, wheezing cough announced the arrival of
Mr. Tucker. This was an unexpected catastrophe, for Mr. Tucker's day for
spending the morning at the office was Saturday, when he came in to pay
for his paper. It seemed rather an unkind trick of Fate's that he should
have been permitted to arrive a day too soon.
The old gentleman drew up a chair to the stove, then deliberately
removed his overcoat and gloves.
It was when he took off his overshoes, however, that Mr. Opp and Nick
exchanged looks of despair. They had a signal code which they habitually
employed when storms swept the office, but in a calm like this they were
powerless.
"Mighty sorry to hear about that uprisin' in Guatemala," said Mr.
Tucker, who took a vivid interest in foreign affairs, but remained quite
neutral about questions at home.
Mr. Opp moved about the office restlessly, knowing from experience that
to sit down in the presence of Mr. Tucker was fatal. The only chance of
escape lay in motion. He sharpened his pencils, straightened his desk,
and tied up two bundles of papers while Mr. Tucker's address on the
probable future of the Central American republics continued. Then Mr.
Opp was driven to extreme measures. He sent himself a telegram. This
ruse was occasionally resorted to, to free the office from unwelcome
visitors without offending them, and served incidentally to produce an
effect which was not unpleasant to the editor.
Scribbling a message on a telegraph-blank procured for the purpose from
Mr. Gallop, Mr. Opp handed it secretly to Nick, who in turn vanished out
of the back door only to reappear at the front. Then the editor, with
much ostentation, opened the envelop, and, after reading the contents,
declared that he had business that would require immediate action. Would
Mr. Tucker excuse him? If so, Nick would hold his coat.
"But," protested Mr. Tucker, resisting the effort to force him into his
overcoat, "I want to talk over this oil business. We don't want to take
any risks with those fellows. As I was a-saying to Mr. Hager--"
"Yes," said Mr. Opp, taking his own hat from a nail, and apparently in
great haste, "I know, of course. You are exactly right about it. We'll
just talk it over as we go up-street," and linking his arm through Mr.
Tucker's, he steered him up the muddy channel of Main Street, and safely
into the harbor of Our Hotel, where he anchored him breathless, but
satisfied.
Having thus disposed, to the best of his ability, of his business for
the week, Mr. Opp turned his attention to his yet more arduous domestic
affairs. The menu for the guest's dinner had weighed rather heavily upon
him all day, for he had never before entertained in his own home. His
heart had been set on turkey; but as that was out of the question, he
compromised on a goose, adhering tenaciously to the cranberry sauce.
It was easier to decide on the goose than it was to procure it, and some
time was consumed in the search. Mr. Opp brought all his mental powers
to bear on the subject, and attacked the problem with a zeal that
merited success.
When he reached home at noon with his arm full of bundles, Aunt Tish met
him with lamentations.
"Dey ain't but one clean table-cloth, an' hit's got a hole in hit, an' I
can't find no sheets to put on de company baid, an' dere ain't three
cups an' saucers in de house what belongs to theyselves. I shorely doan
know what you thinkin' 'bout, Mr. D., to go an' ast company fer. We-all
never does hab company. An' Miss Kippy she be'n habin' a sort er spell,
too, cryin' to herself, an' won't tell me whut's de matter."
Mr. Opp shook the raindrops from his hat-brim, and laid the goose
tenderly on the table; then he stepped inside the dining-room door, and
stood watching the childish figure that sat on the floor before the
fire. She was putting artificial flowers on her head, and every time
they fell off, she dropped her head on her knees and sobbed softly to
herself. Again and again she made the experiment, and again and again
the faded roses came tumbling into her lap.
"I'll fix 'em," said Mr. Opp, coming up behind her; "don't you cry about
it, Kippy; I can make them stay, easy." He searched around in the
clothes-press until he found a paper box, which he tied securely upon
Miss Kippy's head.
"Now try it," he cried; "put the flowers on your head; they'll stay."
Timidly, as if afraid of another disappointment, she tried, and when the
flowers were caught in the box, she gave a sigh of satisfaction and
delight.
"Well, sence I j'ined de church!" exclaimed Aunt Tish, who had been
watching proceedings from the doorway; then she added, as Mr. Opp came
into the hall: "Hit beats my time de way you handles dat pore chile.
Sometimes she got jes good sense as you an' me has. She ast me t'other
day if she wasn't crazy. I 'lowed no indeedy, dat crazy folks was lock
up in a lunatic asylum. An' she says 'Where?' 'Up at Coreyville,' I say.
She went on playin' jes as nice and happy. De chile's all right ef she
don't git a fool notion; den dey ain't nobody kin make out what she
wants inceptin' you. She been cryin' over dem flowers ever sence
breakfast."
"Why didn't you come after me?" demanded Mr. Opp.
"Jes to tie a box on her haid?" asked Aunt Tish. "Lor', I thought you
was busy makin' dem newspapers."
"So I am," said Mr. Opp, "but whenever Miss Kippy gets to crying, I want
you to come direct after me, do you hear? There ain't anything more
important than in keeping her from getting worried. Now, let's have a
look at that there table-cloth."
All afternoon Mr. Opp encountered difficulties that would have
disheartened a less courageous host. With the limited means at hand it
seemed impossible to entertain in a manner befitting the dignity of the
editor of "The Opp Eagle." But Mr. Opp, though sorely perplexed, was not
depressed, for beneath the disturbed surface of his thoughts there ran
an undercurrent of pure joy. It caused him to make strange, unnatural
sounds in his throat which he meant for song; it made him stop every now
and then in his work to glance tenderly and reminiscently at the palm of
his right hand, once even going so far as to touch it softly with his
lips. For since the last sun had set there had been no waking moment but
had held for him the image of a golden world inhabited solely by a pair
of luminous eyes, one small hand, and, it must be added, a band-box.
Through the busy afternoon Mr. Opp referred constantly to his watch, and
in spite of the manifold duties to be performed, longed impatiently for
evening to arrive. At five o'clock he had moved the furniture from one
bedroom to another, demonstrated beyond a possibility of doubt that a
fire could not be made in the parlor grate without the chimney smoking,
mended two chairs, hung a pair of curtains, and made three errands to
town. So much accomplished, he turned his attention to the most
difficult task of all.
"Kippy," he said, going to the window where she was gleefully tracing
the course of the raindrops as they chased down the pane. "Stop a
minute, Kippy. Listen; I want to talk to you."
Miss Kippy turned obediently, but her lips continued the dumb
conversation she was having with the rain.
"How would you like," said Mr. Opp, approaching the subject cautiously,
"to play like you was a grown-up lady--just for to-night, you know?"
Miss Kippy looked at him suspiciously, and her lips stopped moving.
Heretofore she had resisted all efforts to change her manner of dress.
"There's a gentleman a-coming," continued Mr. Opp, persuasively; "he's
going to remain over till to-morrow, and Aunt Tish is cooking that
large goose for him, and I've been fixing up the spare room. We are all
endeavoring to give him a nice time. Don't you want to dress up for
him?"
"Will it make him glad?" asked Miss Kippy.
Mr. Opp expiated on the enjoyment it would give the unknown guest to see
Kippy in the blue merino dress which Aunt Tish had gotten out of Mrs.
Opp's old trunk up-stairs.
"And you'll let Aunt Tish arrange your hair up like a lady?" went on Mr.
Opp, pushing the point.
"Yes," said Miss Kippy, after a moment, "Oxety will. She will make him
glad."
"Good!" said Mr. Opp. "And if you will sit nice and quiet and never say
a word all through supper, I'll get you a book with pictures in it,
representing flowers and things."
"Roses?" asked Miss Kippy, drawing a quick breath of delight; and when
Mr. Opp nodded, she closed her eyes and smiled as if heaven were within
sight. For Miss Kippy was like a harp across which some rough hand had
swept, snapping all the strings but two, the high one of ecstasy and the
low one of despair.
At six o'clock Mr. Opp went up to make his toilet. The rain, which had
been merely rehearsing all day, was now giving a regular performance,
and it played upon the windows, and went trilling through the gutters on
the roof, while the old cedar-tree scraped an accompaniment on the
corner of the porch below. But, nothing daunted, Mr. Opp donned his
bravest attire. Cyclones and tornadoes could not have deterred him from
making the most elaborate toilet at his command. To be sure, he turned
up the hem of his trousers and tied a piece of oilcloth securely about
each leg, and he also spread a handkerchief tenderly over his pink
necktie; but these could be easily removed after he heard the boat
whistle.
He dressed by the light of a sputtering candle before a small mirror the
veracity of which was more than questionable. It presented him to
himself as a person with a broad, flat face, the nose of which appeared
directly between his eyes, and the mouth on a line with the top of his
ears. But he made allowances for these idiosyncrasies on the part of the
mirror; in fact, he made such liberal allowances that he was quite
satisfied with the reflection.
"I'll procure the hack to bring the company back in," he said to Aunt
Tish rather nervously as he passed through the kitchen. "You assist Miss
Kippy to get arranged, and I'll carry up the coal and set the table
after I return back home. I can do it while the company is up in his
room."
All the way into town, as he splashed along the muddy road, he was
alternately dreading the arrival of one passenger, and anticipating
joyfully, the arrival of another. For as the time approached the
impending presence of the company began to take ominous form, and Mr.
Opp grew apprehensive.
At the landing he found everything dark and quiet. Evidently the packet
was unusually late, and the committee appointed to meet it and conduct
the guests to their various destinations was waiting somewhere uptown,
probably at Your Hotel. Mr. Opp paused irresolute: his soul yearned for
solitude, but the rain-soaked dock offered no shelter except the slight
protection afforded by a pile of empty boxes. Selecting the driest and
largest of these, he turned it on end, and by an adroit adjustment of
his legs, succeeded in getting inside.
Below, the river rolled heavily past in the twilight, sending up tiny
juts of water to meet the pelting rain. A cold, penetrating mist clung
to the ground, and the wind carried complaining tales from earth to
heaven. Everything breathed discomfort, but Mr. Opp knew it not.
His soul was sailing sunlit seas of bliss, fully embarked at last upon
the most magic and immortal of all illusions. Sitting cramped and numb
in his narrow quarters, he peered eagerly into the darkness, watching
for the first lights of the _Sunny South_ to twinkle through the gloom.
And as he watched he chanted in a sing-song ecstasy:
"She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red."
X
When Miss Guinevere Gusty tripped up the gang-plank of the _Sunny South_
late that afternoon, vainly trying to protect herself from the driving
rain, she was met half-way by the gallant old captain.
Tradition had it that the captain had once cast a favorable eye upon her
mother; but Mrs. Gusty, being cross-eyed, had looked elsewhere.
"We are a pudding without plums," he announced gaily, as he held the
umbrella at an angle calculated to cause a waterspout in the crown of
her hat--"not a lady on board. All we needed was a beautiful young
person like you to liven us up. You haven't forgotten those pretty tunes
you played for me last trip, have you?"
Guinevere laughed, and shook her head. "That was just for you and the
girls," she said.
"Well, it'll be for me and the boys this time. I've got a nice lot of
gentlemen on board, going down to your place, by the way, to buy up all
your oil-lands. Now I know you are going to play for us if I ask you
to."
"My goodness! are they on this boat?" asked Guinevere, in a flutter. "I
am so glad; I just love to watch city people."
"Yes," said the captain; "that was Mr. Mathews talking to me as you came
aboard--the one with the white beard. Everything that man touches turns
to money. That glum-looking young fellow over there is his secretary.
Hinton is his name; curious sort of chap."
Guinevere followed his glance with eager interest. "The solemn one with
the cap pulled over his eyes?" she asked.
The captain nodded. "All the rest are inside playing cards and having a
good time; but he's been moping around like that ever since they got on
board. I've got to go below now, but when I come back, you'll play some
for me, won't you?"
Guinevere protested violently, but something within her whispered that
if the captain was very insistent she would render the selection which
had won her a gold medal at the last commencement.
Slipping into the saloon, she dropped quietly into one of the very
corpulent chairs which steamboats particularly affect, and, unobserved,
proceeded to give herself up to the full enjoyment of the occasion. The
journey from Coreyville to the Cove, in the presence of the
distinguished strangers, had assumed the nature of an adventure. Giving
her imagination free rein, Miss Gusty, without apology, transported the
commonplace group of business men at the card-table into the wildest
realms of romance. The fact that their language, appearance, and manner
spoke of the city, was for her a sufficient peg upon which to hang
innumerable conjectures. So deep was she in her speculations that she
did not hear the captain come up behind her.
"Where have you been hiding?" he asked in stentorian tones. "I was
afraid you'd gotten out on deck and the wind had blown you overboard.
Don't you think it's about time for that little tune? We are forty
minutes late now, and we'll lose another half-hour taking on freight at
Smither's Landing. I've been banking on hearing that little dance-piece
you played for me before."
"I can't play--before them," said Guinevere, nervously.
The captain laughed. "Yes, you can; they'll like it. Mr. Mathews said
something mighty pretty about you when you came on board."
"He didn't--honest?" said Guinevere, blushing. "Oh, truly, Captain, I
can't play!" But even as she spoke she unbuttoned her gloves. Her
accomplishment was clamoring for an exhibition, and though her spirit
failed her, she twirled the piano-stool and took her seat.
The group of men at the table, heretofore indifferent to proceedings,
looked up when a thundering chord broke the stillness. A demure young
girl, with gentle, brown eyes, was making a furious and apparently
unwarranted attack upon the piano. Her one desire evidently was to get
inside of the instrument. With insinuating persistence she essayed an
entrance through the treble, and, being unable to effect it, fell upon
the bass, and exhausted a couple of rounds of ammunition there. The
assault on both flanks being unsuccessful, she resorted to strategy,
crossing her hands and assailing each wing of the enemy from an
unexpected quarter. When this move failed, she evidently became
incensed, and throwing aside diplomacy, rallied all her forces, charging
her artillery up to the highest note, then thundering down to the
lowest, beating down the keys as fast as they dared to rise. In the
midst of the carnage, when the clamor was at its height and victory
seemed imminent, she suddenly paused, with one hand in air and her head
gently inclined, and, tapping out two silvery bugle-notes of truce,
raised the siege.
The appalling silence that ensued might have hung above a battle-field
of slain and wounded. The captain bit his mustache.
"That wasn't exactly the one I meant," he said. "I want that little
dance-tune with the jingle to it."
Miss Gusty, disappointed and surprised at the effect which her
masterpiece had failed to produce, was insisting with flushed cheeks
that she could play no more, when the gentleman who was called Mr.
Mathews rose from the table and came toward her. His hair and pointed
beard were white, but his eyes were still young, and he looked at her
while he spoke to the captain.
"I beg your pardon, Captain," he was saying in smooth, even tones,
"can't you persuade the young lady to sing something for us?"
"I never took vocal," said Guinevere, looking at him frankly. "I'm
making a specialty of instrumental."
The gentleman looked sidewise at his companions and stroked his beard
gravely. "But you _do_ sing?" he persisted.
"Just popular music," said Guinevere. "I was going to take 'The Holy
City' and 'The Rosary' last year, but the vocal teacher got sick."
In response to a very urgent invitation, she took her seat again, and
this time sang a sentimental ditty concerning the affairs of one "Merry
Little Milly in the Month of May."
This selection met with prompt favor, and the men left their cards, and
gathered about the piano, demanding an encore.
Miss Guinevere's voice was very small, and her accompaniment very loud,
but, in her effort to please, she unconsciously became dramatic in her
expression, and frowned and smiled and lifted her brows in sympathy with
the emotions of the damsel in the song. And Miss Guinevere's eyes being
expressive and her lips very red, the result proved most satisfactory
to the audience.
One stout young man in particular expressed himself in such unrestrained
terms of enthusiasm, that Guinevere, after singing several songs, became
visibly embarrassed. Upon the plea of being too warm she made her
escape, half-promising to return and sing again later on.
Flushed with the compliments and the excitement, and a little uncertain
about the propriety of it all, she hurried through the swing-door and,
turning suddenly on the deck, stumbled over something in the darkness.
It proved to be a pair of long legs that were stretched out in front of
a silent figure, who shot a hand out to restore Miss Gusty to an upright
position. But the deck was slippery from the rain, and before he could
catch her, she went down on her knees.
"Did it hurt you?" a voice asked anxiously.
"It don't matter about me," answered Guinevere, "just so it didn't spoil
my new dress. I'm afraid there's an awful tear in it."
"I hope not," said the voice. "I'd hate to be guilty of dress slaughter
even in the second degree. Sure you are not hurt? Sit down a minute;
here's a chair right behind you, out of the wind."
Guinevere groped about for the chair. "Mother can mend it," she went on,
voicing her anxiety, "if it isn't too bad."
"And if it is?" asked the voice.
"I'll have to wear it, anyhow. It's brand splinter new, the first one I
ever had made by a sure-enough dressmaker."
"My abominable legs!" muttered the voice.
Guinevere laughed, and all at once became curious concerning the person
who belonged to the legs.
He had dropped back into his former position, with feet outstretched,
hands in pockets, and cap pulled over his eyes, and he did not seem
inclined to continue the conversation.
She drew in deep breaths of the cool air, and watched the big side-wheel
churn the black water into foam, and throw off sprays of white into the
darkness. She liked to be out there in the sheltered corner, watching
the rain dash past, and to hear the wind whistling up the river. She was
glad to be in the dark, too, away from all those gentlemen, so ready
with their compliments. But the sudden change from the heated saloon to
the cold deck chilled her, and she sneezed.
Her companion stirred. "If you are going to stay out here, you ought to
put something around you," he said irritably.
"I'm not very cold. Besides, I don't want to go in. I don't want them to
make me sing any more. Mother'll be awfully provoked if I take cold,
though. Do you think it's too damp?"
"There's my overcoat," said the man, indifferently; "you can put that
around you if you want to."
She struggled into the large sleeves, and he made no effort to help her.
"You don't like music, do you?" she asked naively as she settled back in
her chair.
"Well, yes," he said slowly. "I should say the thing I dislike least in
the world is music."
"Then why didn't you come in to hear me play?" asked Guinevere,
emboldened by the darkness.
"Oh, I could hear it outside," he assured her; "besides, I have a pair
of defective lamps in my head. The electric lights hurt my eyes."
He struck a match as he spoke to relight his pipe, and by its flare she
caught her first glimpse of his face, a long, slender, sensitive face,
brooding and unhappy.
"I guess you are Mr. Hinton," she said as if to herself.