She sat upon the edge of her bed, debating the matter in hand, when there sounded a knocking upon her door.
“What is it,” she called.
“Mr. Fownes is down in the parlor a-waitin’. He wants to know if you’ll come down and see him—if you hain’t to bed yit.” The last sentence was obviously not a part of the message, but interested conjecture on the part of the messenger.
“What does he want?”
“Didn’t say. I asked him, but he let on ’twan’t none of my business. Said it was important, though.”
Carmel pondered a moment. Aversion to the fat little man waged war with woman’s curiosity to know what his errand could be at this hour when Gibeon was tucking itself into its feather beds.
“Please tell him I’ll come down,” she said.
She went down. The parlor of the hotel was tucked off behind the big room which was combined office and lounging room for traveling men and village loafers. It contained a piano which had not been played since it had been tuned and had not been tuned for a time so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. On the wall was a hand painting of a forest fire, done by a talented relative of the hotel’s proprietor. Doubtless this portrayed some very special kind of forest fire, or it would not have called forth the artist’s genius. One would not know at first glance that it depicted a forest fire, because it looked to the uninitiated like a number of dilapidated red feather dusters standing upright in a heavy surf. But it had been done by hand, and Gibeon regarded it as her artistic farthest north. There were also two gilt chairs, evidently peeling after sunburn, a small onyx table and a piece of furniture known to furniture manufacturers of its period as a settee.... Abner Fownes was, on Carmel’s entrance, the settor. He arose with the ease and grace of a man lifting a barrel of flour and bowed.
“You wished to see me?” she said, coldly.
“Very much. Very much indeed.”