“Which way?” he asked as they crossed the south veranda.
“Round the park, and bring up under the tree, and have tea there,” dictated Maida, her heart already lighter as she obeyed her mother’s dictum to avoid unpleasant subjects.
But as they walked on, and trivial talk seemed to pall, they naturally reverted to the discussion of their recent guests.
“Mr. Appleby is an old curmudgeon,” Maida declared; “Mr. Keefe is nice and well-behaved; but the little Lane girl is a scream! I never saw any one so funny. Now she was quite a grand lady, and then she was a common little piece! But underneath it all she showed a lot of good sense and I’m sure in her work she has real ability.”
“Appleby wouldn’t keep her if she didn’t have,” her father rejoined; “but why do you call him a curmudgeon? He’s very well-mannered.”
“Oh, yes, he is. And to tell the truth, I’m not sure just what a curmudgeon is. But—he’s it, anyway.”
“I gather you don’t especially admire my old friend.”
“Friend! If he’s a friend—give me enemies!”
“Fie, fie, Maida, what do you mean? Remember, he gave me my pardon.”
“Yes, a high old pardon! Say, dad, tell me again exactly how he worded that letter about the tree.”