When their walk was over, and Dorothy had said good-night, Mrs. Thorburn came to sit beside Austin, under the rose-covered pergola. Once more she laid her hand upon his arm, and again her speech was full of friendly interest and sympathy, leading, at last, to the subject of a change in Austin’s mode of life, and then—to marriage.
There could be no doubt as to her meaning. She admired and respected him. His loyalty to his dead wife was, to her, a sure sign that he would make a loyal husband to a new one. And Dorothy felt so, too.
Later, he held a conference with himself—and felt just a trifle disappointed at the thought that Mrs. Thorburn was descending to match-making. “Perhaps I would be happier, though,” he said to himself, “and more contented. But—Dorothy is twenty.”
Was there not too wide a gap between their ages? He had always held that youth naturally turned to youth for happiness; he had always strongly disapproved of the marriage of May with December, pointing out that such a union never took place when December was poor. But—was forty December? On the other hand, he was not poor.
“But the Thorburns don’t need money,” he said decisively. “It wouldn’t be a purchase.” The idea was so abhorrent that he determinedly put it aside, and fell asleep thinking of possible changes in the decorations and furnishings of the big, stone house on the avenue.
The miniature had not been forgotten: he had purposely refrained from looking at it.
It was early morning when he awoke and looked out. The sun was just rising. High Court was yet asleep. The only moving thing about the grounds was a gardener, pushing before him a barrow filled with weeds and tools. Austin dressed hurriedly, and quietly made his way out upon the broad lawn. Then he pulled his soft hat over his eyes, settled his coat, and made off down the carriage road, walking briskly.
To reach the creek was easy. But once on its edge, he looked up at the house and felt that the long pull back would be less difficult after a refreshing cup of coffee. The thought touched his pride—had he grown to be such an old fogy that he must have his usual breakfast stimulant before making a little extra physical effort! The town lay up the level track. He turned that way.
Breakfast over at the little Mexican restaurant, he started homeward, leaving the tracks, this time, and following a trail that led through a small field of alfalfa. When the woods were reached, he settled himself against a log in the sun, and looked down upon the town, toward which a pigmy freight train was crawling, and upon the fringed creek and the small, fenced alfalfa fields bordering the lane.
And then—gobble, gobble, gobble. He glanced along the trail. Some turkeys were coming into view, and beyond them, a wide, bobbing hat.