The Man in Lonely Land | Page 6

brought him he bowed ceremoniously, then put it down to light a cigar. There were times when he wished Dorothea were his. If she were his-- He took a long whiff of his cigar and threw the match in the fire.

IV
DOROTHEA AND MR. LAINE
"Pardonnez-moi!" Mademoiselle Antoinette stood at the door. Around and about her hung blushing apology, and her hands clasped and unclasped in nervous appeal. The hour had struck and her little charges must come. Would Monsieur pardon? She was so sorry, it was sad, but Madame would not like it. "Oh, of course!" Laine waved his hand. "Good night, Buster!" Channing was tossed in the air. "If the gobblers get you to-night, don't mind. They're just turkey. Good night, Miss Wisdom!" Stooping, he kissed Dorothea and unwound the arms with which she clung to him. "I'm sorry, child, but a bargain is a bargain, and your mother won't trust us if we don't play fair-- It's after eight and--" "But I haven't told you what was the specialest thing I had to--" Dorothea turned to the woman standing in the door holding her brother's hand; spoke to her rapidly.
"Je vous en prie, Mademoiselle Antoinette, Prenez Channing et ne m'attendez pas. Je vous rejoindrai dans un instant. J'ai quelque chose de tres important a dier a mon oncle--deux minutes et j'arrive!"
Antoinette hesitated, then, with a gesture of despair, left the room; and instantly Dorothea was on a stool at her uncle's feet.
"Did you know?" Elbows on his knees and chin in the palms of her hands she looked up eagerly in his face. "Did you know my cousin Claudia was coming to-night?"
"I did."
"Isn't it grand!" Dorothea's hands came together, and in another minute she was dancing round and round the room, the tip ends of her skirt held by her fingers. "I'm crazy about my cousin Claudia. She's my only correspondent, the only one I love to write to, I mean. She writes things I like to hear about, and Christmas she sends me something I want. That's the way we began to write. She sent me a present, and father made me thank her in writing myself, and then she wrote me and we've been friends ever since."
Laine knocked the ashes from his cigar toward the grate. "I didn't know you knew Miss Keith."
"I don't. But I'm going to like her all right. Some things you know right here"--she put her hand on her breast. "Father's been wanting mother to ask her for a long time, but mother said she knew she didn't have clothes like New York people wore, and it might make her feel badly. I heard them talking one night, and father said the Keiths didn't have to depend on their clothes to show where they belonged, so mother invited her; but I don't think she wanted to very much. Do you suppose?"--she came toward him, and, with her hands on the arms of his chair, searched his face--"Do you suppose she will be very country-looking?"
"I really couldn't guess. People who live in the backwoods and miles from a railroad are not apt to be leaders of fashion. Doubtless her hands will be red and her face will be red and her hair will be red, but--"
"I don't care how red she is, I'm going to love her. I can tell by her letters!" Dorothea's shoulders were back and her eyes were shining. "And I don't see why you say things like that! I don't think you are very polite!"
"I don't, either. I think I'm very impolite. It may be, you know, that her eyes will be blue and her lips will be blue and her skin will be blue--"
"And that will be worse than red. I thought you were going to be glad she was coming. Aren't you glad?"
"Shall I tell the truth, or be polite?"
"Both."
"Impossible! If I told you I was glad I would be untruthful; if sorry, I would be impolite."
"But why aren't you glad? Are you too old to be glad over young ladies?"
Laine laughed. "I think I am. Yes, I'm sure that's what's the matter. Not for some years have I been glad over them, I don't care for girls older than you are, Dorothea. When they reach the grown-up age--"
"Claudia has reached the age of twenty-six. She told me so in one of her letters. What age have you reached, Uncle Winthrop?"
"Middle age."
"Is that very old?" Dorothea came closer, and her fingers slipped in and out of Laine's hair. "You're gray just a teensy bit, but I don't think she's a person who will mind if a man isn't truly young. You've got such nice strong arms, and I'm not afraid of lions or tigers or bears or--or mice or anything when you are with me. Please like her,