“And after Mr. Stone comes you get the water ready for the tea,” said Mrs. Randolph, as she went into the bedroom. “Be sure that you have a fresh lemon. The last time Mr. Stone was here his slice was all dried up—and men don’t like that sort of thing.”
A minute or two after she had disappeared there was a rap at the door, and Jemima came from the bedroom and admitted Mr. Stone. She told him that Mrs. Randolph would see him at once, and then she went back to her mistress, after giving him a curiously inquisitive look.
Mr. Stone had the walk of a sailor, but he carried himself like a soldier. His eyes were blue and penetrating; his ashen mustache curled over a firm mouth; his clean-shaven chin was square and resolute.
He stood near the door for a moment, and then he went toward the window. The rain had dwindled, and as he looked out he thought he saw a break in the clouds.
It was full five minutes before Mrs. Randolph returned.
“Oh, Mr. Stone,” she began, in voluble apology, “it’s a shame to keep you waiting so, but honestly I couldn’t help it. You took me by surprise so, I really wasn’t fit to be seen!”
Mr. Stone gallantly expressed a doubt as to this last statement of hers.
“It’s very good of you to think that,” she responded, “but I hardly hoped to see any one this afternoon, in this awful weather. How did you ever have the courage to venture out? It’s so kind of you to come and visit a lonely woman, for it has been such a long day!”
Mr. Stone informed her that it looked as though it was about to clear up.
“Of course you sailors have to know all about the weather, don’t you?” she replied. “That’s the advantage of being a man—you can do things. Now a woman can’t do anything—she can’t even go out in the rain for fear of getting her skirts wet!”