“But you’ve never said you wouldn’t. And you are going to. But all I ask just now, is that you’ll assure me you’re not in love with this Lochinvar who has so unexpectedly come out of the West.”
“Of course, I’m not!” But the emphasis was a little too strong and the cheek that turned away from him, a little too quickly flushed, to give the words a ring of sincerity.
However, it seemed to satisfy Judge Hoyt. “Of course, you’re not,” he echoed. “I only wanted to hear you say it. And remember, my girl, you have said it. And soon, as soon as you will let me, we will talk this over, but not now. Truly, dear, I don’t want to intrude, but you know, Avice, you must know how I love you.”
With a little gasping sigh Avice drew away the hand Hoyt had taken in his own, and ran back into the library.
She found Landon and Eleanor Black in a close conversation that seemed too earnest for people just introduced.
“Very well,” Eleanor was saying, “let it be that way then. I’ll give it to you this very afternoon. But I am not sure I approve,—” and then, as she heard Avice enter, she continued, “of—of Western life myself.”
The artifice was not altogether successful. Avice’s quick ears detected the sudden change of inflection of the voice, and the slight involuntary hesitation. But she ignored it and responded pleasantly to their next casual remarks.
CHAPTER IX
A CLAUSE IN THE WILL
The funeral ceremonies of Rowland Trowbridge were of the dignity and grandeur that are deemed necessary for a man of his station in life. Great men of the financial world, scholars and statesmen had all come to pay their last respects to the one so suddenly taken from his busy and forceful career.
And now, the obsequies over, a group of people were gathered in the library of the Trowbridge home to hear the reading of the will.