“He had to,” Lucy replied. “I put it in an envelope and wrote—‘from an admirer of Mme. Van Der Dokjen’!”
No one spoke for a time.
“I know it was foolish,” said Lucy, finally. “But the day I got it, I felt so—I can’t describe it—so—well, so healthy, you know, and able to do anything I wanted. And he was sitting in there, writing his poor silly old book, with one candle. And his gray hair, and his funny little beard—and the way he clears his throat—sort of baaing—like a lamb. And I thought he was ruined.”
“Foolish!” repeated Cousin Winnie, and with that she walked briskly up the path.
“I really am a little bit sorry,” Lucy remarked.
“Sorry for what?” inquired Ordway.
“Well,” said she. “For you, I guess. You must feel pretty flat, just now.”
“Thank you,” said he. “I do.”
“It was a nasty, condescending thing.”
“It wasn’t meant like that,” he declared. “What I—”