The Man in Lonely Land | Page 6

distress. "Was
Dorothea and me made out of dust, Uncle Winthrop?"
"Dust, mere dust, my man."
For a moment there was silence and seeming thought, then Dorothea's
head bobbed up and down. "Well, we can't help it, and there's no use
letting things hurt that you can't help! But I don't think mother knows,
Uncle Winthrop, and please don't tell her. She just hates dirt. Gracious
goodness! I'm as full as a frog, and the ice-cream's got chocolate on it,
too!"
In the library some minutes later Dorothea was pouring her uncle's
coffee, and as he took the cup she 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