The Desired Woman | Page 6

trot down here," the old gentleman said,
crustily. "I put myself out to make that trip down-town for you, and I'll
be hanged if I climb those steps again till bed-time."
"Well, I'll be down in a minute," his daughter replied. "I know you have
no very bad news, or you would have been more excited. You see, I
know you."
Mitchell grunted, dropped his stick into an umbrella-holder, and turned
into the library, where he again encountered the maid, now vigorously
dusting a bookcase.
"Leave it, leave it!" he grumbled. "I don't want to be breathing that
stuff into my lungs on a day like this. There is enough dust in the
streets without having actually to eat it at home."
With a sly look and a low impulsive titter of amusement the yellow girl
restored a vase to its place and turned into the study adjoining.
"Get out of there, too!" Mitchell ordered. "I want to read my paper, and
you make me nervous with your swishing and knocking about."
"I can slide the doors to," Jincy suggested, as she stood hesitatingly in
the wide opening.
"And cut off all the air!" was the tart response. "From now on I want
you to pick times for this sort of work when I'm out of the house. My
life is one eternal jumping about to accommodate you. I want comfort,

and I'm going to have it."
Shrugging her shoulders, the maid left the room. Mitchell had seated
himself near an open window and taken up his paper when his daughter
came down the steps and entered. She was above medium height, had
abundant chestnut hair, blue eyes, a good figure, and regular features,
the best of which was a sweet, thin-lipped, sensitive mouth. She had on
a blue kimono and dainty slippers, and moved with luxurious ease and
grace.
"You ought to have more patience with the servants, father," she said,
testily. "Jincy is slow enough, heaven knows, without you giving her
excuses for being behind with her work. Now she will go to the kitchen
and hinder the cook. If you only knew how much trouble servants are
to manage you'd be more tactful. Half a dozen women in this town
want that girl, and she knows it. Mrs. Anderson wants to take her to
New York to nurse her baby, and she would propose it if she wasn't
afraid I'd be angry."
Mitchell shook out his paper impatiently and scanned the head-lines
over his nose-glasses. "You don't seem very much interested in my trip
downtown, I must say."
"Well, perhaps I would be," she smiled, "but, you see, I know from
your actions that he isn't much sick. If he had been you'd have mounted
those steps three at a time. Do you know everybody is laughing over
your interest in Dick Mostyn? Why, you are getting childish about him.
I'm not so sure that he is really so wonderful as you make him out.
Many persons think Alan Delbridge is a better business man, and as for
his being a saint--oh my!"
"I don't care what they think," Mitchell retorted. "They don't know him
as well as I do. He wouldn't be under the weather to-day if he hadn't
overworked, but he is all right now. The doctor says he only needs rest,
and Dick is going to the mountains for a month. As for that, I can't for
the life of me see why--"
"Why, Atlantic City with us wouldn't do every bit as well," Irene

laughed out impulsively. "Oh, you are funny!"
"Well, I don't see why," the old man said. "If you two really do care for
each other I can't see why you really would want to be apart the best
month in the year."
Irene gave her damp, fragrant hair a shake on one side and laughed as
she glanced at him mischievously. "You must really not meddle with
us," she said. "Three people can't run an affair like that."
Mitchell folded his paper, eyed her suspiciously for a moment, and then
asked: "Is Andrew Buckton going to Atlantic City? If he is, you may as
well tell me. I simply am not going to put up with that fellow's
impudence. People think you care for him--do you hear me?-- some
people say you like him as well as he does you, and if he wasn't as poor
as Job's turkey that you'd marry him."
Miss Mitchell avoided her father's eyes. She shook out her hair again,
and ran her white, ringed fingers through its brown depths. "Haven't I
promised you not to think of Andy in--in any serious way?" she faltered.
"His mother and sister are nice, and I don't want to offend them. You
needn't keep bringing his name up." Her