"Miss Charlotte, is it not?" he finally ventured.
"What do you want?" was the blunt reply.
Propitiation was difficult for Slade, especially in the face of such obvious, uncompromising antipathy. His nervousness measurably increased, and he replied, rather incoherently
"Pardon me, Miss Charlotte, I know it seems strange—why I am here, I mean; but I must see—dear me, I can't explain.... Can't you hold the light a little more out of my eyes? Oh, very well.... Your mother—Mrs. Fairchild—I must see her on business—very important, Miss Charlotte."
Her amazement only deepened.
"Business with mamma!" she cried, incredulously. "Why, that is ridiculous—absurd; mamma has transacted no business for years. What in the world do you mean?"
He seemed to be painfully aware of his awkward, ungainly, and untidy appearance, and of the harshness of his voice; he was overcome by a sense that this woman, who looked him through and through as if he were transparent, would regard any misfortune that might befall him with precisely the same expression. He made a strenuous effort at composure, with the result that his naturally sour and churlish disposition was given an opportunity to assert itself.
"My business goes behind those years," he said; "and if you please, it is none of yours."
"Indeed?" The rising inflection soared to glacial heights. "If you will excuse me I will close the door. When my brother returns—"
A sudden look of cunning in the little jet eyes checked her.