“Positively next Tuesday,” said Minnie, firmly. “And I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Petersen. I appreciate your kindness.”
She held out a small plump hand which he grasped earnestly.
“But just the same, who is she?” he asked himself as he rode away.
III
He went home to his house on a shady street of the village, and strolled into the kitchen where his housekeeper was cooking a rabbit.
“Mrs. Hansen,” he said, “who’s that up at Mrs. Defoe’s?”
Of course she knew.
“Her granddaughter, Mr. Petersen. Two of them,” she answered, eagerly, delighted at being questioned. “They came from New York a week ago. Two young orphans. Just lost their father. He was thought to be rich, but it seems he wasn’t. He didn’t leave them a penny. And they’ve been brought up to expect the best of everything, so I’ve heard. It’s sad, isn’t it, Mr. Petersen?”
He thought it was; the phrase “two young orphans” stuck in his mind, and while he walked about his garden, inspecting his trees and vegetables, he reflected on it. “Young orphans.” He remembered that she had been wearing a black dress, and that the ribbons in her little apron had been black. And there had been a sobriety in her bearing....
Mrs. Hansen wished to pursue the subject. She began when she had put his excellent dinner on the table.