“Not since last summer,” said Pryor. “I only get here once or twice a year, to see my married daughter. I always try to spend August with her if I can. She’s still living in that little house, over on the next street, I bought for her through your real-estate company. I suppose you’re still in the same business?”
“Yes. Pretty slack, these days.”
“I suppose so, I suppose so,” responded Mr. Pryor, nodding. “Summer, I suppose it usually is. Well, I don’t know when I’ll be going out on the road again myself. Business is pretty slack all over the country this year.”
“Let’s see—I’ve forgotten,” said Madison ruminatively. “You travel, don’t you?”
“For a New York house,” affirmed Mr. Pryor. He did not, however, mention his “line.” “Yes-sir,” he added, merely as a decoration, and then said briskly: “I see you have a fine family, Mr. Madison; yes-sir, a fine family; I’ve passed here several times lately and I’ve noticed ‘em: fine family. Let’s see, you’ve got four, haven’t you?”
“Three,” said Madison. “Two girls and a boy.”
“Well, sir, that’s mighty nice,” observed Mr. Pryor; MIGHTY nice! I only have my one daughter, and of course me living in New York when I’m at home, and her here, why, I don’t get to see much of her. You got both your daughters living with you, haven’t you?”
“Yes, right here at home.”
“Let’s see: neither of ‘em’s married, I believe?”
“No; not yet.”
“Seems to me now,” said Pryor, taking off his glasses and wiping them, “seems to me I did hear somebody say one of ‘em was going to be married engaged, maybe.”
“No,” said Madison. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, I suppose you’d be the first to know! Yes-sir.” And both men laughed their appreciation of this folly. “They’re mighty good-looking girls, THAT’S certain,” continued Mr. Pryor. “And one of ‘em’s as fine a dresser as you’ll meet this side the Rue de la Paix.
“You mean in Paris?” asked Madison, slightly surprised at this allusion. “You’ve been over there, Pryor?”
“Oh, sometimes,” was the response. “My business takes me over, now and then. “I THINK it’s one of your daughters I’ve noticed dresses so well. Isn’t one of ‘em a mighty pretty girl about twenty-one or two, with a fine head of hair sort of lightish brown, beautiful figure, and carries a white parasol with a green lining sometimes?”
“Yes, that’s Cora, I guess.”
“Pretty name, too,” said Pryor approvingly. “Yes-sir. I saw her going into a florist’s, downtown, the other day, with a fine-looking young fellow—I can’t think of his name. Let’s see: my daughter was with me, and she’d heard his name—said his family used to be big people in this town and–-“
“Oh,” said Madison, “young Corliss.”
“Corliss!” exclaimed Mr. Pryor, with satisfaction. “That’s it, Corliss. Well, sir,” he chuckled, “from the way he was looking at your Miss Cora it struck me he seemed kind of anxious for her name to be Corliss, too.”
“Well, hardly I expect,” said the other. “They just barely know each other: he’s only been here a few weeks; they haven’t had time to get much acquainted, you see.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Mr. Pryor, with perfect readiness. “I suppose not. “I’ll bet HE tries all he can to get acquainted though; he looked pretty smart to me. Doesn’t he come about as often as the law allows?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Madison indifferently. “He doesn’t know many people about here any more, and it’s lonesome for him at the hotel. But I guess he comes to see the whole family; I left him in the library a little while ago, talking to my wife.”
“That’s the way! Get around the old folks first!” Mr. Pryor chuckled cordially; then in a mildly inquisitive tone he said: “Seems to be a fine, square young fellow, I expect?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Pretty name, `Cora’,” said Pryor.
“What’s this little girl’s name?” Mr. Madison indicated the child, who had stood with heroic patience throughout the incomprehensible dialogue.
“Lottie, for her mother. She’s a good little girl.”
“She is SO! I’ve got a young son she ought to know,” remarked Mr. Madison serenely, with an elderly father’s total unconsciousness of the bridgeless gap between seven and thirteen. “He’d like to play with her. I’ll call him.”
“I expect we better be getting on,” said Pryor. “It’s near Lottie’s bedtime; we just came out for our evening walk.”
“Well, he can come and shake hands with her anyway,” urged Hedrick’s father. “Then they’ll know each other, and they can play some other time.” He turned toward the house and called loudly:
“Hedrick!”
There was no response. Behind the back of his chair Hedrick could not be seen. He was still sitting immovable, his eyes torpidly fixed upon the wall.
“Hed-RICK!”
Silence.
“Oh, HED-rick!” shouted his father. “Come out here! I want you to meet a little girl! Come and see a nice little girl!”
Mr. Pryor’s grandchild was denied the pleasure. At the ghastly words “LITTLE GIRL,” Hedrick dropped from his
