“I think so.”
“Do you think he’s worried about business lately, Harlan?”
“No, I don’t think he ever worries about anything.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong!” she said quickly. “You don’t know him; a man can’t sacrifice everything to just one object in life, as he has, all these years, and not worry about it. I know your mother worries about him. She says he never takes any care of himself, and it’s beginning to tell on him. But I mean are there any—any rumours around town that he’s in some sort of business difficulty, or anything like that?”
“No; I think not. At least I haven’t heard of anything like that being more prevalent with him than usual. He’s always up and down, either up to his neck or riding on the crest—that’s his way, and I don’t believe he’d enjoy himself otherwise. The only thing he could talk about when I saw him yesterday at home was his new house. It’s finished at last; and they’re going to move into it. Mother’s sold our old place, you know, and the wrecking will begin next week. Pleasant for you!”
“Oh, I’m trying to get father to go, too,” she said. “He’s terribly obstinate, but with the house on the other side of us rebuilt into an apartment, and now your mother’s to be torn down, he’ll have to give in. We’ll have to move out to northern Ornaby like everybody else. You’ll have to come, too, Harlan.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a good many years for that invitation. May I make an appointment with your father for to-morrow morning?”
She laughed, blushed, and touched his coat sleeve with her folded fan of black feathers. “Hush! People will hear you!”
“You fear it may be suspected that I’m still serious in my intentions?”
“Hush!” she said again. “I mean we’re about to hear some serious music, and it’s no time for nonsense.”