"Your horse will be ready for you in a few minutes," said Mr. Beecham as they arose from the table.
"And your clothes are dried and in your room," added his wife.
It was time to be going. He mounted to his room, changed into the rough suit he had bought in Shelbyville, and forced his feet into his soggy shoes. They were waiting for him before the fire as he came down. After a moment, Mrs. Beecham left them. Tom hoped desperately that Mr. Beecham would do likewise.
"I'll see if Sam is bringing your horse," he said.
Tom's eyes met Marjorie's as the older man entered the next room, where he could look out toward the stables. He had no sooner disappeared than Tom asked in a low voice: "Why did you do that?"
"You're not a Southerner, are you?" she asked.
"No," he answered bluntly. "But what…?"
"I'm not either," she replied. Her glowed with excitement. "I'm from
Albany…."
They were interrupted by Mr. Beecham's returning. "The horse is coming," he announced. Mrs. Beecham entered the room.
"Thank you for your hospitality," said Tom.