He was, innocently enough, pleased with her appearance, and saw nothing sinister, nothing extraordinary about her. A rather short, full-bosomed young woman of perhaps twenty, with a dark, freckled face and an expression very pleasant and friendly. She smiled at him as soon as she entered.
“Mrs. Defoe will be back in a minute,” she said, as she set down her tray. She was wearing a ruffled little apron tied about her neat waist, and her air was altogether housewifely and homely, as if she had been brought up from infancy in that very house. He couldn’t imagine who she was. He knew that the old lady lived alone, had lived alone since the death of her husband twelve years ago. This agreeable young person was certainly not a servant, and he was sure she didn’t belong in the neighbourhood. If he had seen her, he knew he would have remembered her.
She gave him a glass of lemonade and sat down opposite him, amiably prepared to entertain him.
“It’s growing warm, isn’t it?” she said, and he recognised in her voice and accent something far superior to the native language of Brownsville Landing.
“It’s what we want, for the fruit,” he answered, in his sing-song drawl. “It was a cold Spring here.”
“So I’ve heard.... What a nice horse! Is it yours, Mr. Petersen?”
He was very much pleased; he said it was, and went on to tell of the virtues and eccentricities of his beloved mare.
Minnie said she didn’t ride, but was very fond of driving.
Riding suited Mr. Petersen better; it made one feel more independent.
“Oh, well, you’re a man!” said she. “A girl can’t go riding about alone, very well.”