Mrs. Witherbee, her hands clasped to her bosom, regarded him with horror.
"Won't you—please—take a chair?" she whispered timidly.
"Chair? Why, thanks—if you'll stick it in front of a table. I haven't had a mouthful since noon, and I don't mind saying I can eat anything and everything you've got in the house. Here, Tom! Don't fuss with that trunk; I'll take care of that later."
Mr. Witherbee cautiously pushed a porch rocker against Reginald's legs.
"We'll get you some grub," he said anxiously. "Only sit down first. Rest yourself, old man."
"Rest! That's all I've done all day in a train that didn't have ambition enough to keep within two hours of her schedule. I could have pushed the blamed thing faster than it went."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Witherbee, his brow furrowed in anxiety. "But just sit down a bit. Enjoy the air—it's great up here. See that view—isn't it amazing? Everything so quiet so, peaceful Oh, it just puts ten years on a man's life to spend a little while up here! No worry, no cares, no excitement."
Reginald sat reluctantly.
"No excitement!" he exclaimed. "Then, by George, we'll make some! How do you live without it? I can't. I'm going to start something, sure as you live. But I'd like to eat first."
The Witherbee family ventured inquiring glances at Rosalind. That lady's face bore a curious expression of doubt and dismay. But she did not lose her self-control. Stepping behind Reginald's chair, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head warningly.