“No, John,” she sighed, “I’m not dreaming. What was it you said?”
John glanced from Nannie to Lucy and frowned.
“When do you want to go and see the sculptures I spoke of?” he repeated with less enthusiasm.
“Why—I don’t know. Let’s see—When had you rather go, Lucy?”
“Any day that is convenient for John.”
“Well, let’s see—” Nannie regarded her plate abstractedly.
“Would day after tomorrow do?” suggested John, still covertly scrutinizing the two women.
“Why, yes—let’s see—day after tomorrow—” Mrs. Merwent’s eyes and voice trailed off into space again.
“I’ll declare, Nannie,” remarked John with some irritation, “you act as though you were a thousand miles away. Are you worried about anything?”
“No‑o. That is—nothing in particular,” she amended.
“Well, then, shall we settle on day after tomorrow?”
“Why, yes, day after tomorrow will suit me.”
“Well, then, you two come down to the office after lunch and we’ll go.” John took up his fork again.
The door bell rang and Katy came from the hall with a telegram in her hand. Nannie reached for it, but John, unaware of her motion, took the envelope from the servant. He read the address and passed it across the table.
“It’s for you, Nannie.”
“Thank you.” She dropped the envelope in her plate and picked it up again.
“Why don’t you read it?”
“I don’t like telegrams!” interjected Lucy. “I’m afraid of them. Maybe something’s the matter with Cousin Minnie.”
“Nonsense!” ejaculated John. “It’s probably something very simple. Read it and see. Where is it from?”
“It’s from R—Russellville,” Nannie stammered, opening it with uncertain movements and tearing the message half across in the process.
“What does it say? Is anybody sick?” Lucy queried.
“Who is it from?” insisted John.
“It’s—it’s from—it’s from Professor Walsh,” Mrs. Merwent informed them unsteadily, reading the telegram.
“What’s the matter with him?” sneered John.
“Why, he—you know he—his interest in me—” Nannie began with a changed air of mingled relief and importance.
“Does he have to send telegrams to tell you about it?” demanded John contemptuously. “Can’t he wait for the mails? He’s gotten along with letters pretty well, so far!”
Lucy was observing her mother strangely.
“He’s been trying his best for weeks and weeks to get me to say when—when—to name—to decide—” Nannie hesitated, regarding John beseechingly.
“To name the day, eh!” snorted John, ignoring the look intended for him.
Lucy sat tense in her chair.
“Yes, John,” Nannie spoke almost apologetically, “that’s what he wants. He—he’s very persistent. He wants me to come to Russellville at once.”
“Humph! It’s a funny notion to get all of a sudden. He’s been patient enough until now.”
“John!” Mrs. Merwent’s voice quavered.
His glance encountered hers reluctantly.
Lucy was the personification of palpitating expectation. The color flamed in her cheeks and her eyes were like scintillating stars.
“When do you think you will go, Mamma?” she asked, taking Dimmie’s hand in hers and leaning forward as she spoke.
“Why, I don’t know. I—” Nannie began evasively.
John watched Lucy an instant. Becoming aware of his scrutiny, she turned her head and their glances met. John’s lip curled.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed, throwing down his napkin and pushing his chair back from the table.
Lucy said nothing, but the color left her face. Her grip on Dimmie’s hand tightened. John rose.
“Of all the contemptible scheming and plotting! If you were determined to insult your mother why did you have to do it behind my back? If we have to fight, let us at least be decent about it, and fight in the open!” John’s tone was scathing and with each word his voice reached a higher pitch. He stared at Lucy scornfully.
“What do you mean, John?” she began in a bewildered manner. Then she exclaimed indignantly, “Oh, how dare you!” She rose. One hand still clutched Dimmie.
“Now, John, Lucy didn’t mean—” Nannie, showing her fright, spoke soothingly.
“Oh, I know, Nannie! ‘Lucy didn’t mean!’ She don’t want you out of the house, I suppose! She hasn’t been driving you and me half crazy ever since you came with her suspicions and jealousy!”
“Remember what I told you, John Winter!” Lucy warned, her eyes steely.
“Oh, I’ll remember!” John’s gaze was lowered for an instant. Then his ire came to the aid of his courage. “I’ll remember, but you can’t threaten me into forgetting my self-respect!” he declared defiantly.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. The news that Mamma was going was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”
“John—” Nannie went no further.
“Oh, I know you didn’t have anything to do with the telegram, but that doesn’t alter what I say.” He glared at Lucy. “I saw how you were looking at Nannie, as if you could hardly wait for the moment to come when you could get her out of the house!”
“Now, John, surely when I’m willing to forgive Lucy—” Nannie’s air was soft and uncertain.
“Come, Dimmie!” Lucy almost jerked the whimpering child from his chair, and, holding his hand, led him into the kitchen.
She left her own yard by the gate which adjoined Dr. Hamilton’s premises.
“Come right in, Mrs. Winter,” Mrs. Hamilton’s maid-of-all work greeted them at the back door. “Mrs. Hamilton is in the dining room.” And the girl led Lucy through the kitchen.
“May I come in?” petitioned Lucy in an unsteady voice at the threshold of the dining room.
“Dear me, yes,” Mrs. Hamilton said encouragingly.
She was rocking Stella to sleep and did not rise but held out her hand. Lucy seized it.
“I just wanted to sit with you a little while, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“I’m so glad you came.” Mrs. Hamilton reached her unoccupied arm around Stella and patted Lucy’s hand. “Draw up the other rocking chair. The Doctor is out on another maternity case and I’m all alone again. I was thinking about you. How is your mother?”
Without answering, Lucy placed a rocking chair near Mrs. Hamilton and took Dimmie into her lap.
As soon as she and John were alone, Mrs. Merwent, who had risen also during the altercation between John and Lucy, reseated herself at the table in silence and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Won’t you sit down, John?” she urged compassionately.
Without speaking,
