“Precisely. It is mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.”
“Edward the Elder died in 924, didn't he?” asked the ruthless American.
“About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon my word, Mr. Blair, you have taken up history with true American efficiency! I do wish that our young men had the same zeal. I am happy to say, however, that I am expecting a young cleric this evening, a protege of the Bishop of Oxford, who is, I believe, also interested in these matters.”
Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at this moment Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in.
“My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We are great cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughter Kathleen.”
The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heart contusions known in the history of the human race. It was a positive vertigo of admiration. This was indeed the creature he had seen on the railway platform: a dazzling blend of girl and woman. The grotesque appellation “flapper” fled from his mind. Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly across her head and piled at the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray eyes, under rich brown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed. She was that most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl and woman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither. Blair could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only the arch face, the intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady, friendly gaze.
“How do you do,” he said, and remembering English reticence, hesitated to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not having done so.
Kathleen smiled, and murmured, “How do you do.”
“I'm very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Kent. “Do tell us what that crazy Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had three telegrams from her?”
Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronoun can destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sit down on the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair.