A long search ended in success; and Dorothea then set herself to the copying out of a dry statement about tropical climates, which had seemingly engaged her father's affection. What could be the use of the extract she was unable to imagine. That fact did not lessen her diligence in making a fair copy.
"Thanks," the Colonel said, when she handed it to him. Not a little to her surprise, the monosyllable was followed by a remark "You write a good sensible hand. Like your mother's."
"I am glad. Then handwriting may be inherited," said Dorothea.
The Colonel scratched away with his squeaking quill for another ten minutes, after which he came to a pause, laid down the quill, gazed hard at Dorothea, and said, "I suppose it will have to be."
"It?" repeated Dorothea.
"Your call on Mrs. What's-her-name. I'll leave you at the door some day or other, when I happen to be going in that direction—and come for you later."
"O thank you!" Dorothea was not demonstrative commonly; but she started up in her sudden pleasure, and gave him a kiss. "Thank you very much. How kind you are!"
The rust-red of Colonel Tracy's complexion deepened into a tint not far removed from mahogany. He had not had such a sudden promiscuous kiss in the course of the day for years past; not even from Dorothea. She was rather surprised at her own unwonted impulse, and the Colonel was very much surprised indeed. At the first moment, his impulse was to mutter "Pshaw!" and to turn brusquely away, yet the next instant he would not have been without the kiss. It had an odd softening effect on his feelings. He felt the better for it, and he liked Dorothea the better. But Dorothea only heard that impatient "Pshaw!" and saw his movement of seeming disgust.
"I forgot,—you don't like being kissed," she said apologetically. "I won't do it again."
The Colonel hoped she would, but he made no sign.