“Oh, I know what that means! That I must say good morning, and nothing more! But I do want just half a dozen more words.”
The piquant face smiled coaxingly, as Lena Richards danced in. She was the daughter of the house, a dark-haired, olive-skinned little gipsy, who, being quite spoiled by her doting parents, assumed the right to have her own way with every one else.
Farnsworth liked her as no one could help doing, but he was often obliged to speak more curtly than he liked to, or she would intrude too often on his time.
She wore a smock of pink linen and her curly hair was bundled into a little Dutch cap. She came in, with the venturesome air of a mischievous child, and perched saucily on the corner of the big desk.
“You see,” she began, “I’m in an awful scrape—well, that is, I’m not, but somebody else is——”
“Who isn’t?” said Farnsworth, smiling at the roguish little face that wore such a troubled frown.
“Yes, I s’pose everybody is, more or less, from the President down. And when you think of that, my little brother does seem small, but—you see, to me——”
“It’s a national calamity?”
“Personal rather than national,—yet it may be said to be international.”
“Many of our troubles are. Your story interests me strangely,—my che-ild,—but truly, Lena, I can’t take time now to hear the yarn. I suppose your fudge was lumpy, or your new ribbons don’t match your frock,—is that it?”