Her glance went to the mantelpiece, and Alexander's followed. He was near crying out, "But that's not the one he'll bring!" and then the thought flashed: "But she must be like that, or how did we ever get her picture?" The reality and the dream jostled each other, merged, and separated with all their outlines blurred. Discomfort was in his breast like a snake in grass.
"I'm against asking the girl," he said firmly.
James Rutherford lifted his head. "And I'm for it. You don't consult me—either of you. Isn't this my house? We'll have the girl; but aren't there two of them? Let's have them both. Two of them, aren't there, Clara? Well, then, Alexander—both." He stood before the fire and stroked his beard.
"They shall be asked. There is also an uncle."
"Oh, never mind him! Three's enough."
Alexander went away laughing, but he was uneasy until he had the letter in which Edward Webb accepted the invitation for himself, and refused it for both his daughters.
[CHAPTER XVI]
He had begged Theresa to go with him, but she had snapped her pale lips on her decision. "I'm not going."
He looked anxiously at her. The thin figure drooped in its mourning, and her neck seemed without sufficient strength to hold her head and its thick, untidy hair. "You don't look well," he murmured in distress. "Theresa, don't people sometimes have their hair cut off; when they're ill, I mean?"