"Well, I'm real glad," declared the maid. "That wrapper looks all right. I wouldn't stop to change."
She gazed admiringly at the brilliant tints of Sylvia's complexion as the girl ran a comb through her reddish curls.
"Indeed I shan't change for him," responded Sylvia. Her heart was hot within her. Dunham might have come himself. Now she should never see him again, and she didn't care. The only reason she had wished to meet him was to show him her inflexibility and independence despite her acceptance of the despised money he had forced upon her.
She swept by the maid, who continued to gaze after her with admiration, and went downstairs to the reception room.
There she found a man with gray hair and short white beard, sitting near a window, a somewhat limp bag on the floor beside him. She paused inside the doorway and stood regarding him.
There was nothing interesting in his appearance. She had had all she wanted of relatives. If those who would have been creditable would none of her, she certainly would none of this countrified individual and his claim of cousinship.
"Good-afternoon," she began coldly. "You say you have brought me some explanation of Mr. Dunham's telegram?"
"Why, why," said the stranger, gazing at her musingly as he slowly rose from his chair; "is it possible that you are Laura's little girl?"
He stood noting her repellent attitude, and Sylvia recalled the maid's ardent recommendation of the manner in which he looked out of his eyes.
"You resemble her very little," he continued, in a slow, quiet voice as pleasant as his gaze. "I hadn't remembered that Sam Lacey was so good-looking."