Kitabı oku: «Talbot's Angles», sayfa 7
But, as if to make up for this seeming rudeness, for the next few days he was rarely absent from the house when Linda was there. He was at the gate when she started forth to school; he was at the corner to join her when she came home. Supper was scarcely over before his step was heard upon the porch, and if there was no open love-making, there was at least a sufficient show of interest to make the girl feel that no word of hers passed unnoticed.
"I believe the man is falling in love with you," averred Miss Ri bluntly, when he left them one evening; "if he is not already there."
Linda flushed, but replied steadily: "You must remember that I am a relative, and naturally he turns to me for sympathy and advice. The poor fellow has neither mother nor sister, and, of course – "
"Take care, Verlinda. That 'poor fellow' sounds very dangerous. You know what pity is akin to."
But Linda did not reply. She turned out the light by the piano, busied herself in straightening the room, and then, kissing Miss Ri good-night, went directly upstairs. She stood a long time before her mirror, thoughtfully gazing at the reflection she saw there, and after she had turned out her light, she went to the window which opened upon the back garden, looking across to where a twinkling beam shone out from Miss Parthy's house. "It is rather nice to have a new cousin," she said to herself, as she drew down the shade again and turned to open a window further away from her bed.
On the other side of the entry, Miss Ri, in her room, was frowning and saying savagely to herself: "Maria Hill, you are an idiot. It is just like you to be carried away by some new excitement, never looking far enough ahead to discover what it is all leading to. I say you are an idiot, and you are not the only one, if the truth were known."
CHAPTER XI
A NEWSPAPER
Linda, though spontaneous enough in ordinary matters like most Southern girls, was reticent when it came to those things which touched her most nearly. She was but fifteen when her mother died; her sisters, older than herself, had passed out of her life before she had really known them well. The elder had married and had died within a year, the younger, Linda remembered only as a delicate girl, who was too frail to go so far as town to school, and who one day was covered with flowers and was borne to the little churchyard. So at the very time Linda had needed someone to whom to give her confidences she had only her older brother, Martin, a busy man, and one who could hardly sympathize with her youthful fancies, her flights of imagination, however kind he might be. Therefore because she must have some outlet for her fanciful thoughts she began to scribble, for her own pleasure at first, later with the hope that she might one day write something worth publishing. It was not till she had taken up her abode with Miss Ri that she did timidly send forth some little verses, very doubtful of their finding a place in the columns of the newspaper to which she sent them.
Time went on and she had heard nothing of her small venture, but one Saturday morning, having gone to the school-house for some book she needed, she stopped at the postoffice for the mail, forestalling the postman who could deliver it later.
On the threshold she met Berk Matthews. "Why, hallo, Linda," he exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays."
"And whose fault is that, I'd like to know," she answered.
"Whose fault? Why, the ducks, of course. I didn't have any luck and am going out again. By the way when did you turn poet?"
Linda paled, flushed, looked down nervously, shuffled the letters and papers she held. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.
"There's only one Verlinda Talbot, isn't there? Unless someone has borrowed your very pretty and unusual name. Look at this." He thrust his hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a paper, opened the sheet and pointed out the following:
THE MARCHING PINES
Up from the hill-slope and over the ridge
An army is coming of marching pines.
The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridge
Wrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines.
They march from the meadow land over the snow
With bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx,
Save where, on their outlying edges, they show
A few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks.
And down in the field, set in orderly rows
Are wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon.
Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes?
From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon.
Verlinda Talbot.
"Here, let me take your things," said the young man gently as he perceived by her shaking hands and changing color that she was agitated. He watched her read the lines through and as she raised sweet questioning eyes, he bit his lip and drew in his breath quickly and sharply. "I like it, Linda," he said as she folded the paper and handed it back to him. "How did you manage to do it? I am as proud as can be of you."
"Are you really, Berk? That is very nice of you. To think you saw it before I did. Why I didn't even know they were going to print it."
"You didn't? Then I'm the discoverer. I'm proud of that, too. Very likely you will find a copy of the paper in your mail. Are they paying you well for it?"
"Oh, no, I don't think they pay at all. I don't expect that. I am paid sufficiently by seeing it in print this time. Perhaps – some day – if I keep on – "
"You will be a great writer."
"Oh, never that, but I may be able to write something worth while. I long to."
"And give up teaching? You don't like teaching."
"I don't believe I do very much."
"Yet I hear good accounts of you."
"Really, Berk?"
"Certainly I do. Mr. Willis told me you were very satisfactory, and had broken in your class so they trotted along without a break."
"I think we do get along better," Linda acknowledged a little dubiously, "and I believe the small boys do begin to like me more than they did, at least some of them do."
"All of them will in time, I am sure."
"You're a nice encouraging friend, Berk. Is this where we part?"
"Yes, I have an appointment with Judge Morris this morning. Good-by. Tell Miss Ri I'll be around soon."
He gave the budget into her hands, raised his hat and entered the little one-storied building at the side of whose door were signs denoting the calling of those whose offices were within, lawyers all, two judges among them.
The trees over-arching the long street had lost most of their leaves, but the river was as blue as ever, and the gardens still held late blooms. A tall cosmos peeped over the fence of one, chrysanthemums made a brave showing in another. A few courageous nasturtiums started brilliantly from amid their yellowing leaves, scarlet salvia shot out myriads of little tongues of flame before almost every house. The streets were quite full of people this Saturday morning. Country vehicles, mud-stained, and in many cases rickety and drawn by shabby mules, jostled more pretentious teams. Lolling darkies singing some monotonous camp-meeting hymn, drove their brick carts to a new building which was going up near by. Dogs were seen everywhere, some at the heels of the young men who, in hunting attire, were making ready to start out for a day's shooting, some lying on the porches ready to bark at any passer-by, some sportively chasing one another up and down the street, playfully catching at the long silky ear of a companion, or rolling him over and over, then off again in hot chase. One or two thrust their cold noses into Linda's hand as she passed them, and with wagging tail received her caress and "Nice doggie" as something not only expected but deserved. The air was soft, sweet and languorous, for Indian summer was here and the days still held suggestions of the earlier season.
Linda turned in at the gate leading to Miss Ri's house, and pushing her feet through the drift of crisp leaves which covered the gravelled walk, enjoyed the exhilaration of the hour. She was buoyant, hopeful, really happy. Life was opening up wonderful possibilities. The music of the spheres was hers. She read the spirit of the universe in each dancing leaf, in each scarlet flower-flame.
Seeing Phebe at the back of the house she ran around to her. The old woman raised herself ponderously from where she was spreading her dish-towels on the grass. "Do you like it here? Are you happy, Mammy?" asked Linda.
"Jes listen to de chile," exclaimed Mammy. "Is I happy? I done got 'ligion long ago, honey, and I ain't back-slid fo' many a ye'r. Co'se I is happy. I ain't shoutin' but I ain't mo'nin', an' I hopes I ain't lak dese young things dat hollers hallelujah at nights and steals from de madam in de mawnin'. Co'se I is happy long as mah baby ain't down in de mouf. Yuh sutt'nly looks peart, honey, an' bless mah Lord an' Marster dat I kin say it. Whar all yo' beaux, honey chile?"
Linda laughed. "Oh, they'll be around after a while."
Mammy chuckled and Linda entering by the back door, after some searching, at last found Miss Ri upstairs looking over the house linen.
"Well, Verlinda, you have a fine color," said the lady looking up. "It does you good to get out into the fresh air. Any news up town?"
"I met Berk."
"You did? What did he say about the trunk?"
Linda stopped in the act of tearing the wrapper from a newspaper she held. "Aunt Ri, I declare I never said a word to him about it. Never once did it enter my mind."
"Verlinda Talbot! I can scarce believe that. What were you talking about to make you forget it?"
Linda finished freeing the paper from its wrapper. Her eyes were downcast, and the flush lingered in her cheeks; a smile played around her lips. "This," she answered holding out the paper on which her verses were printed.
Miss Ri adjusted her spectacles, read the lines, laid the paper aside and took the girl's hands in hers. "You dear, sentimental child," she said, "I am proud of you."
"That is what Berk said," returned Linda with a little pleased smile.
"Did he? Well, he may be. Why, my dear, we shall all be proud of you, the whole town. We must have you in the club; you will be an ornament to it."
Linda fairly laughed at this. "One meagre little set of verses will not give more than a rushlight's beam," she answered, "even in Sandbridge, Aunt Ri. But maybe I shall be a real shining light some day. Anyhow it is great fun."
"Of course it is to those who can do it. I couldn't to save me."
"And, you see, in the excitement of the discovery, the reason of my forgetting the trunk. Please don't tell Mr. Jeffreys that I have seen Berk; he will think me a very indifferent cousin if he knows."
"What did Berk have to say besides mentioning that he was proud of you?"
"He said he had no luck shooting and that he was going out again. I imagine he has been pretty busy, but he said I was to tell you he'd be around soon."
"Ducks or no ducks?"
"The ducks weren't mentioned."
"Well, he'd better come if he knows what is good for him. Here is your other swain heading this way. Go down and see him and keep the trunk out of the conversation when I am around or I might forget myself and tell on you. I think you'd better take him off somewhere if you want to be quite safe. It's a fine day to be out of doors."
"We can sit on the porch or go out on the river," responded Linda as she left the room.
She felt a little diffident about showing her newspaper to her visitor, but, reflecting that Miss Ri would be sure to speak of it, she decided to have the matter over with, and at once displayed her verses. If Mr. Jeffreys did not openly express the same appreciation that Berkley had done he was at least as effusive as Linda expected, being at no time a person who showed ardent enthusiasm. His call was not a long one, for Linda felt a little ill at ease, condemning herself for having forgotten a thing so important to him, and in consequence she was not able to talk of his affairs with the same show of interest, a fact which he, however, attributed to her excitement over the printing of her verses.
As the two walked to the gate together they saw Berkley drive by with a friend. Both men were equipped for hunting, and from between Berkley's knees looked out the intelligent face of a fine brown setter who was all a-quiver with the prospect in view.
Mr. Jeffreys gave a sudden call after the buggy, but checked himself directly, turning to Linda with an air of apology. "I should not have done that, but I was carried away by my interest in seeing Mr. Matthews. I didn't know he was in town."
"He is going off with Elmer Dawson, evidently," rejoined Linda, looking after the buggy.
"And there is no telling when he will return. The fates are against me, Miss Linda."
"You certainly are having a lesson in patience," Linda admitted. "Never mind, Mr. Jeffreys, the case won't suffer by reason of delay. Why don't you write a note to Mr. Matthews?" she asked suddenly catching at the idea. "Tell him you think he has happened upon your trunk, describe it, and ask him to let you see it. You must remember his attention has not been called to it yet, and he hasn't a notion that you are in a state of suspense."
"Unless he has examined the contents."
"Which he may or may not have done. At all events, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have brought the subject to his notice. He seems such a difficult person to get at these days that it might be as well to write."
"Thank you for the suggestion; it might not be a bad idea. I will go home and think it over." He lifted his hat and Linda watched him thoughtfully walking down the street. "If Berk does know it is pretty mean of him," she said to herself, and she voiced the opinion to Miss Ri when she went indoors.
"It is mighty mean if he really knows it, and it almost seems as if he must," agreed Miss Ri. "One might almost think he was doing it on purpose, if it were not really a serious matter. Berk is something of a tease, you know. I'll call him up to-night and tell him to come and get his socks. He doesn't deserve to have me mend them, the rascal."
But Mr. Matthews was not at the hotel, came the news over the 'phone that evening. Neither did he appear on Sunday. On Monday it was learned that he had returned but was at Court when Mr. Jeffreys tried to see him. The day went by and there was no response to the note Mr. Jeffreys mentioned having written.
"It begins to look very queer," said Miss Ri soberly when Monday had passed and no Berkley appeared. "I'm beginning to lose faith, Linda, and that is something I have never done before where Berk was concerned. He can't want to steal such a paltry thing as a trunk."
"Perhaps to his legal mind it is his own property since he bought it," remarked Linda in excuse.
"But there are the papers."
"True, there are the papers. He has no right to them. Dear me, my head fairly buzzes with trying to account for it. I wish we had never heard of Wyatt Jeffreys and his old trunk. Why did he come here to disturb our peace?"
"It certainly is queer for Berk to act so," continued Miss Ri, "and the queerest part of the whole business to me is that he has not been near us for two weeks."
"He did come, you remember, that day you went to the country with Mrs. Becky."
"Yes, I had forgotten that."
"And he was as nice and friendly as could be the day I met him at the postoffice."
"But he hasn't sent us those ducks," contended Miss Ri.
CHAPTER XII
A BRACE OF DUCKS
The very next morning after this talk Wyatt Jeffreys met Berkley Matthews on the street just outside the Jackson House. "Hallo," cried the latter. "Just have your note. I've been staying with John Emory, and we've been off ducking so I didn't get my mail till this morning. It certainly would be a good joke if I had captured your trunk. Suppose you come and have a look at it, and if you identify it, of course you shall have it without delay. Come up to my room."
As Mr. Jeffreys followed the springing step all suspicion fled. Once in the room the trunk was easily recognized. "There were some papers," said Mr. Jeffreys.
"Oh, yes, they are over at my office. I had to get a locksmith to open the trunk for me, and he had to put on a new lock, as you see. I took out the clothing over here, sent the trunk across the way, dumped out the papers in a valise without looking at them, and there they are. You can get them any time."
"I'd like you to go over them with me when you have time, Matthews."
"Very well. Just now I am a little rushed, but we can take it up later when I get this case through I am now at work upon. In the meantime I will see that you get the trunk and the rest of the things. I'll try to get them off this afternoon. I am certainly glad I happened to take a fancy to your trunk, but what a queer coincidence it is. I never associated it with you at all. Those initials, J. S. D. would have misled me in any event. I told Miss Ri they stood for Judge Some Day, and I think they are about the only part of the trunk I feel loth to give up."
Mr. Jeffreys smiled. It was like a sentimental Southerner, he thought. Then, after some discussion about cost of transportation and all that, the matter was settled to the satisfaction of both.
With the delivery of the trunk came the ducks, not inside the trunk, of course, for that contained everything which was in it at the time of Berkley's first possession, everything except the papers. The trunk was brought to Miss Parthy's by an old colored man picturesquely antique both as regarded his costume and himself. Uncle Moke everyone called him, his real name of Moses having fallen into disuse so long before that no one remembered it. He was general factotum around town and a trusty messenger. He had delivered his first charge at Miss Parthy's door, and then was ready for Miss Ri. Nothing pleased him more than such an errand. "Evenin' Miss Ri," said the old fellow with many a bow and scrape, his ragged hat in his hand. "Mr. Berk Matthews' compliments, Miss Ri, an' dese yer ducks, Miss. He say he hopes yuh-alls have 'em fo' suppah, an' he be 'long 'bout seben fo' to he'p yuh-alls eat 'em," the last with a little chuckle of pleasure at delivering such a message.
"Very well, Uncle Moke," returned Miss Ri, taking the ducks. "Whether I have them for supper or not is my look out, you tell Mr. Berk."
"Dey nice fat ducks," remarked Uncle Moke with the privilege of an old acquaintance.
"I see they are."
"Yuh got some cu'ant jelly, is yuh, Miss Ri? Ef yuh ain't mah ole woman got a little she kin spare yuh."
"I know Aunt Welcome's jelly is good, Uncle Moke, but I reckon I have enough for some time to come. How is your wife?"
"She thes tollable, Miss Ri."
"And you?"
"I thes tollable. I has mis'ry in mah j'ints f'om de rheumatiz dese col' days. I kin skeerce tote de rale heavy trunks. Dat one I thes now taken to Miss Parthy's fo' de strange young man wa'n't de heavy kin'."
"Did you take a trunk to Miss Parthy's for Mr. Jeffreys?"
"Yas'm. Mr. Berk he done sont it f'om de hotel. Little weenchy trunk, kinder old-fashion."
"Um-hm," said Miss Ri, nodding her head. "So that's done. Have you good warm flannels, Uncle Moke?" Miss Ri looked him over, perceiving the shabbiness of his attire, ragged shirt, threadbare trousers.
"I ain't had time to buy no winter flannins yet, Miss Ri," responded the old man with a pride that forbade giving the real reason.
"Well, you stop by to-morrow," said Miss Ri. "I shouldn't in the least wonder if there were some things in the house that you could wear, and there is no use to buy anything when I'd be glad to get rid of some underwear that I have on hand."
"Thanky, ma'am, thanky." The bowing and scraping were continued to a degree. "I sholy is obleedged to yuh, Miss Ri. It save me a lot o' bother. I nuvver was no han' at buyin' flannins, and Welky she don' git about much."
Miss Ri watched him stiffly mount his creaking wagon drawn by a scrubby mule, then she went in with the ducks. "Well," she announced, "here they are at last. Don't let me forget, Verlinda, to hunt up some things for Uncle Moke, and if I haven't anything I must buy some. The poor old soul hasn't enough to keep him warm. I don't suppose he makes a great deal these days, for the younger and stronger men are employed where he used to be. He is not able to carry heavy burdens. By the way, the trunk seems to have been delivered, too. Aren't you curious to hear the report. Berk, the impudent boy, sent word he was coming over to help eat the ducks, and wouldn't we please to have them for supper to-night. Isn't that just like him? He does not deserve to be treated decently after the way he has neglected us, but I suppose we shall have to be nice to him as long as he has sent us the ducks." She went on to the kitchen to see Phebe about supper of which she was ready enough to make a true feast.
True to his promise, Berkley arrived promptly for supper. "You renegade," cried Miss Ri. "We were beginning to think all manner of evil about you."
"You were? I didn't expect that of you. What have I done?"
"You have neglected us abominably."
"It does look that way, but I really couldn't help it. I had a tough week of it off with Judge Baker, and then to limber up my brain I took a little outing with some of the boys. We all went down to John Emory's little shack. Didn't I send you the first fruits of my chase? I hope Unc' Moke understood he was to leave the ducks here, and that he didn't take them to Miss Parthy's."
"They came safely enough, and our thanks are ready. We accept your excuses since they seem moderately reasonable, don't we, Verlinda?"
She smiled her response and came forward to greet the young man.
"And how goes the school? Does the verse-making continue?" he asked looking down with interest showing in his eyes.
"The school hasn't finished me yet, and the verses," she blushed a little, "go spasmodically. I haven't sent out any more effusions."
"You must do it. Aren't we proud of her, Miss Ri? Oh, did you hear that the trunk had been found, and that mine was the great mind that happened to realize its value?"
"It was accident, pure accident," cried Miss Ri. "Your great mind had nothing to do with it. You have sent it back to the owner?"
"Yes, worse luck. I wanted to keep it on account of the letters upon it. Now I have nothing to cheer me in my despondent moments. It was quite a fillip to my ambitions to see those letters. I don't know where I shall get another mascot."
"What of the papers?" asked Linda.
"Oh, we haven't come to those yet; they are at my office, and there they will stay till Jeffreys and I can look them over. Ducks ready? Good! May I escort you, Miss Ri. Will you take my other arm, Linda?" They marched solemnly to the dining-room. For some reason Berkley was suddenly subdued and was so long in taking the initiative in the carving of the ducks that Miss Ri spoke up. "Where are your thoughts, Berk?" Then he picked up the wrong knife and fork in confusion and laughed a little nervously.
But though the ducks were done to a turn, and everything was as it should be, Berkley was distrait and ill at ease all the evening, though he stayed quite as late as usual and went off with a jest.
The door had no sooner closed behind him than Miss Ri turned to Linda to say. "I can't think what is the matter with Berk. Did it strike you that he was embarrassed and unlike himself."
"I did think so, but put away the thought as coming from my own vain imaginings. What do you suppose is the matter?"
"I should say it was one of two things; either he is in love or there is something in those papers that is bothering him. I wonder if, after all, it was his mother whom he was so eager to see in the city. I'm beginning to get suspicious."
"But about the papers; what could be in them?"
"That is just what I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I have a deal of thinking to do, Verlinda, my dear. Go to bed and let me puzzle out a few things. Berk said he had seen Grace Talbot, didn't he?" Linda paused, her foot on the stair. "Yes, he spoke of her, said she was looking unusually well." Then a little laugh rippled out. "You don't imagine he has fallen in love with Grace, do you?"
"Some men are fools enough to do anything," returned Miss Ri crossly.
"Then, of course, you don't get mad with such," vouchsafed Linda. Then she turned, a slim graceful figure in trailing black, and came swiftly up to Miss Ri. "You dear old thing," she said, "you mustn't get notions in your head like that; it doesn't make any difference; nothing makes very much difference. Suppose he should marry Grace, then I'd have Talbot's Angles."
"And I'd lose you," returned Miss Ri ruefully. "Are you sleepy? No? Come in then, and let's talk over people and things."
"Let's leave out Berkley and Grace."
"Very well, we'll talk of your new cousin. By the way, if Berk has examined those papers he must know the relationship. Possibly that is just what is the matter."
"I don't think so, besides, I had the impression that he had not looked at them. But we weren't going to talk of Berk, you know. Tell me plainly, what do you think of my new cousin?"
"I think he is an out and out Yankee. Clever enough in some directions, rather whimsical, deadly afraid you will find out what he is thinking about, frightfully cautious of showing his feelings, with a conscience which worries him because his inclination isn't always to follow it exactly, wherein he differs from another who follows his impulses, and whose impulses are always generous ones. Your Mr. Jeffreys sits down and pros and cons for hours. Someone, whose name we don't mention, plunges out, impelled by an unselfish motive, and does the thing that the other deliberates over. Yet I won't say the cousin doesn't do fine honorable things once he makes up his mind it is right. Very likely he rises to his heights by a different process, and doesn't ever make the mistake of over zeal, of going at too brisk a pace like the unmentioned sometimes does. What the latter does is with his whole heart. I think he might almost perjure himself for one he loved; I know he would cheerfully die in the same cause."
Linda, leaning with elbows on table, thoughtfully tapped one hand with an ivory paper-cutter. "You are analytical, Aunt Ri, but probably you are right. Yet, after all if a man, through evolutions of reasoning, reaches a point where his conscience bids him do a noble deed, isn't he just as much to be approved as he who rushes out, never asking for reasons, and does a like noble thing? And isn't he more to be approved than the man who sacrifices his integrity, or does a wrong thing for love's sake?"
"Oh, yes, I don't doubt it though it depends largely upon one's view of the case. For my part I admire the spontaneous, intrepid man more than the deliberate one, but that is a matter of preference."
"Which do you think would be the easier to live with?" Linda balanced the paper-cutter on the tips of her fingers. "Wouldn't the impetuous man be more difficult, more trying, for the very reason of his impetuosity?"
"Yes, but he'd be vastly more entertaining, to my mind, because of his uncertainty."
"In perjuring himself, for example?"
"Oh, we needn't go so far as that, Verlinda. A really good man would never go so far unless – "
"Unless?"
"He felt the cause for which he criminated himself was a greater thing than his own state of well-being. I can imagine certain men who would sacrifice their immortal welfare for the sake of a sacred cause."
"And you think Berkley Matthews is like that?"
"No, I don't say so? I won't go so far in my estimate of him, though I do say there are few things he wouldn't do for one he loved. But you remember we were not to mention him."
"We don't appear to be doing much else. We are comparing him all the time with Mr. Jeffreys whether we mention his name or not. I agree with you in thinking Berk is capable of fine things, but so I believe is Mr. Jeffreys."
"Berk has the tenderest of hearts," continued Miss Ri, "and he has thoughtful little ways that please an elderly woman like myself. I could but notice the difference when I was walking with Mr. Jeffreys. Did he help me over a gutter, or up a steep curb? Not he. Not that I wanted help, but it was the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace that I missed. Berk watches out for your every step, makes way for you, as it were. If he wore a Sir Walter Raleigh cloak it would be mud from end to end so readily would he spread it for a woman's feet to tread on. He may not have the tall and graceful figure of your cousin, but he can bow like a courtier, and will stand with his head uncovered in any weather rather than wear his hat in a lady's presence."
"I have noticed all those things," admitted Linda. "So far, in your opinion, his side of the scales tip far, far below my cousin's, but then one must make allowances for your partiality. You've known Berk since he was born. Perhaps Mr. Jeffreys' mother may have had just so good an opinion of him."
"Being his mother she probably had. What have you to put in his side of the scales?"
"Oh, good looks, a very dignified bearing, and a perfectly well-trained conscience which wouldn't run away with him."
"You know I don't call that so desirable a quality as the impulsive generosity."
"But I do, so if you leave your impulsive generosity in the scales, I must have the well-trained conscience."
"Very well. Go on."
"Then, there's your mud-spattered cloak which I will balance with – let me see – "
"You can't find anything to equal that," cried Miss Ri triumphantly.
"Oh, yes, I can. There is a certain beautiful dignity and a certain indescribable charm; I don't know exactly wherein it lies, but it is there. Bertie Bryan has discovered it, too, and very probably it has not escaped you."
"I don't see it at all."
"There we are again, so you will have to take the courtesy and I'll have the dignity and charm. I haven't a doubt but if we knew Mr. Jeffreys better we should find a host of other things."
"He is not sympathetic in the way Berk is."
The paper-cutter was at work again. "No-o," Linda admitted, "he doesn't seem to be, but perhaps he really is, inside."
