Mauney regarded her in silence for a moment, as their eyes met and did not waver.
“My God, Freda, you’re a comfort,” he said suddenly. With a little laugh he rose and picked up his hat from the table. “I’ve got to be going.”
“And don’t forget,” she said, as she walked beside him to the car, “that there will be somebody here waiting to see you again, soon.”
“I’m not likely to forget it,” he said, giving her arm a gentle pinch. “The fact is, nothing else much suits me, but being around where you are.”
That evening, after Freda had washed the dinner dishes, she remained thoughtfully busy in the kitchen. Presently her mother, as she had been expecting, came out to prepare some grape-fruit for the breakfast, and incidentally, to pass a few remarks about Mauney. She had sunk the blade of her knife into the green fruit before she glanced up to behold Freda, who, in accordance with old custom, was sitting perched on the back of a kitchen chair with her feet resting on its seat. With a thin sigh that expressed her disapproval of the posture, Mrs. MacDowell took up a pair of scissors and proceeded with her work.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” she commenced, in a delicately scornful tone, “that this Bard person is a rather stiffish youth?”
“He’s stiffish all right enough, Mother,” said Freda with an amused chuckle. “I used to always fall for the foppish variety, didn’t I? But I’m getting old, and my taste in men is changing.”
“I’m not so sure, but that he’s related to the Bards of Beulah, who bring turnips to the market,” submitted her mother, calmly, as she snipped away with her scissors.
“I imagine you’re quite right,” Freda said. “Mauney has hoed ’em himself lots of times, and is proud of it.”
“He seems to have practically no social address, no ease of manner.”