“Dear heart!” exclaimed Miss Sabrina, distressed. “Cicely is sometimes—yes—”
But Mrs. Singleton laughed merrily. “I will show him to you presently,” she said.
“Mr. Singleton is so extraordinarily agreeable!” said Miss Sabrina, with unwonted animation.
“Oh yes, he is wonderful; and he is a statesman too, a second Patrick Henry. But then as regards the little things of each day, you know, we don’t go to our husbands with those.”
“What do you do, then?—I mean with the husbands,” Eve asked.
“I think we admire them,” answered Mrs. Singleton, simply.
Lucasta, the negro girl, now appeared with a tray. “Pray take some Madeira,” said their hostess, filling the tiny glasses. “And plum-cake.”
Eve declined. But Miss Sabrina accepted both refreshments, and Mrs. Singleton bore her company. The wine was unspeakably bad, it would have been difficult to say what had entered into its composition; but Madeira had formed part of the old-time hospitality of the house, and something that was sold under that name (at a small country store on the mainland opposite) was still kept in the cut-glass decanter, to be served upon occasion.
Presently a very tall, very portly, and very handsome old man (he well merited three verys) came in, leaning on a cane. “Miss Bruce—little Rupert; our dear little boy,” said Mrs. Singleton, introducing him. She had intended to laugh, but she forgot it; she gazed at him admiringly.
The master of the house put aside his cane, and looked about for a chair. As he stood there, helpless for an instant, he seemed gigantic.