Mr. Petersen also rose.
“Mrs. Defoe quite well?” he enquired.
“Yes; at least she says so. She never complains.”
“And—I believe it was your sister I spoke to——”
“Minnie? Oh, she’s always well,” she answered, carelessly, and with still another glowing smile, went off, elated.
Undoubtedly she was the handsome one—a striking figure. But somehow, for him, at any rate, lacking the peculiar charm of her plainer sister; that sober and matronly young creature in the little apron.
He felt a most Quixotic interest in both of the “young orphans.” He would have done a very great deal for them. In fact, he did....
III
He was surprised and disappointed when she didn’t appear on Monday morning. At half past ten he gave her up and went out about some business, reflecting upon the instability of women. He came back in half an hour, and had just sat down at his desk when she entered, terribly flushed and dusty. Her expression was defiant, but her voice suspiciously uncertain.
“I’m very sorry to be so late,” she said. “It won’t happen again. I had to walk, and I missed the way. But I’ll arrange better after this.”