“Why, Catherine!” Stacey exclaimed, going toward her quickly and holding out his hand.
She had risen swiftly, as surprised as he. She was wearing a black dress, but with a wide pointed collar of white lace at her bare throat. She looked firm and grave and slender.
“Well, isn’t this jolly?” he said, shaking her hand cordially. “What are you doing here?”
“Didn’t you get my last letter?” she asked, with some embarrassment. “I think your father wrote you, too.”
“I did get your letter and one from father,” he replied, “just before I left Pickens, but, to tell you the truth, I’ve brought them back unopened in my bag. I thought it would be so much nicer to talk with you both. It sounds rude and unappreciative, but I didn’t mean it that way.” She was still gazing at him, and he saw that she was distressed about something and as shy as ever. “Sit down, do!” he said.
She obeyed. “You see,” she began slowly, “I didn’t think you’d be back yet. And a little while ago, when the rent period on our house was up, your father said—he’s been so awfully kind to us always—and he said—”
“Catherine,” Stacey interrupted, “it’s oppressive to see any one with as much to say as you always have, so unable to say it.” (She bit her lip.) “My father said: ‘I insist on your coming to live here. It’s a big place and I need a housekeeper.’ ”
But, though he laughed, Stacey did not feel mirthful. He had a sudden perception of how lonely his father had been, how lonely Catherine had been.
“Yes,” she returned, “that was what he said. And I was weak enough to accept, though I knew it was only kindness on his part. But I was going away when you came back, Stacey.”
“Oh,” he remarked, “you were!”