“And you’ll just retire, and live quietly,” said Miss Pinnegar.
“I shall see,” said James. And with those fatal words he wafted away to find Mr. May.
James was now nearly seventy years old. Yet he nipped about like a leaf in the wind. Only, it was a frail leaf.
“Father’s got something going,” said Alvina, in a warning voice.
“I believe he has,” said Miss Pinnegar pensively. “I wonder what it is, now.”
“I can’t imagine,” laughed Alvina. “But I’ll bet it’s something awful—else he’d have told us.”
“Yes,” said Miss Pinnegar slowly. “Most likely he would. I wonder what it can be.”
“I haven’t an idea,” said Alvina.
Both women were so retired, they had heard nothing of James’s little trips down to Lumley. So they watched like cats for their man’s return, at dinner-time.
Miss Pinnegar saw him coming along talking excitedly to Mr. May, who, all in grey, with his chest perkily stuck out like a robin, was looking rather pinker than usual. Having come to an agreement, he had ventured on whiskey and soda in honour, and James had actually taken a glass of port.