“A kind of guilty—or shall I say embarrassed—look. Don’t you notice it mother?”
“I do!” said my mother.
“I suppose it means we may not ask him questions,” Lettie concluded, always very busily sewing.
He laughed. She had broken her cotton, and was trying to thread the needle again.
“What have you been doing this miserable weather?” he enquired awkwardly.
“Oh, we have sat at home desolate. ‘Ever of thee I’m fo-o-ondly dreēaming’—and so on. Haven’t we mother?”
“Well,” said mother, “I don’t know. We imagined him all sorts of lions up there.”
“What a shame we may not ask him to roar his old roars over for us,” said Lettie.
“What are they like?” he asked.
“How should I know? Like a sucking dove, to judge from your present voice. ‘A monstrous little voice.’”