When Landry came down to breakfast the next morning there were two
letters lying by his plate. He concealed his great anxiety to open them;
he sat down and asked his aunt how she had passed the night. She made a
point of coming down to take breakfast with him, although it was rather
hard for her to be about so early. But she adored the boy, and his
affectionate politeness more than compensated her.
She said thank you, she had slept very well.
“Do you mind?” said Nicholas, picking up his letters.
“Of cou’se not!” she answered, and he opened the first.
Miss Amy Humbert would be pleased to see him on Wednesday evening
between eight and nine. The old fashioned formality made him smile, but
it pleased him, it pleased him very much. It was one step nearer to his
Rosaleen. Then he opened the other.
His aunt noticed that he had stopped eating. He sat staring at his
plate, lost in thought, frowning. Then he looked up stealthily at her,
and she endured his critical regard with calmness. And he evidently
decided at last that she was to be trusted, for he got up and brought
his two letters to her.
She read the invitation with a smile; then she looked at the other,
scratched, scrawled on a piece of cheap paper in a stamped envelope.
“Dear Mr. Landry:
“Please don’t come on Wednesday. Please don’t _ever_ come. If you
will come to Miss Waters’ studio this afternoon I will explain. But
please do not write, because I do not get the letters.”
And it was signed simply “R.”
“And I can’t go to Miss Waters’!” he cried. “I can’t possibly ask for an
afternoon off the very first week of this new job!”
“Who is ‘R’?” asked his aunt, gently.
“Rosaleen. What do you make of this, Aunt Emmie?”
“My dearest boy, Ah don’t know anything about it at all, remember! Can’t
you tell me something about her?”
“I don’t know much about her. But--I’m interested in her. I--I like
her.”
“But what sort of people are they?”
“Oh, fairly decent! Respectable, quiet sort of people, as far as I can
see. She’s an orphan--lives with her uncle and cousin. She’s studying
art.”
All this sounded reassuring to his aunt. The first shock was over, and
she began to feel pity for his trouble. He was so agitated, walking up
and down the room, with his sulky, boyish scowl.
“Good Lord! What a situation!” he cried. “She asks me not to come and
not to write--and they have no telephone. And she asks me to meet her,
so that she can explain, and I’m not able to go. And she may be in
trouble of some sort. I think it’s very likely.”
“Shall Ah go there for you this afternoon, and explain?”
“No!” said Nick. But he stopped short, and braced himself for an
argument. “But I’ll tell you what you _can_ do, Aunt Emmy!”