Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the
stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other.
"But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see," he replied, with a
gesture toward the table.
"Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?" asked
Edna. "Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it,
auntie?"
"Charming," said Aunt Clara, still panting. "You must miss an elevator
in the house, Mr. Larcher."
"If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there
was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the
lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up."
"We're keeping you from your work, Tommy," said Edna, with sudden
seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell.
"Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea
made for you? Or will you take some wine?"
"No, thanks; we've just had tea."
"I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,"
suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a
chair for himself.
"I just came in to tell you what I've discovered," said Edna. "Mr. Turl
is in love with Florence Kenby!"
"How do you know?" asked Larcher.
"By the way he looks at her, and that sort of thing. And she knows it,
too--I can see that."
"And what does she appear to think about it?"
"What would she think about it? She has nothing against him; but of
course it'll be love's labor lost on his side.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144