She was thinking that, after all, things couldn’t be so bad. Something would surely happen!
A carriage was coming along the road. Mrs. Vincey glanced up. Joey sat very still. Oh, no, it couldn’t be! Stopping here!
They did not move, or speak, or look at each other. The carriage had stopped. The garden gate creaked, and footsteps were coming along the path at the front of the house—heavy and uncertain steps. They could not see; they did not need to see.
At the sound of the steps mounting to the veranda, Mrs. Vincey rose and went around to the front of the house, neat, smiling, and dignified. With a civil nod for the driver who had assisted him, she took her son’s arm to lead him into the house; but he was in a bad mood.
“The damned young jackanapes!” he shouted. “Sitting there—old Brown’s place—damned young jackanapes—threw me out of office!”
“Will you—settle with the driver, Joey?” asked Mrs. Vincey, very low.
Joey did not answer. She was standing near the foot of the steps, with such a look on her face!
The driver saw that look, and walked back to his carriage. Mrs. Vincey saw it, and her face grew rigid. Captain Vincey turned to see what she was staring at, and he, too, saw it. It silenced him.
IV
Mark Napier was sitting in the club that evening, reading the newspaper. He had brought letters of introduction, and he knew a good many men here—to nod to, at any rate; but conservative Port Linton was quite willing to let him alone for awhile, and he preferred it so. He was not genial, and had no talent for camaraderie. He was slow to give his friendship, but, once given, it was worth keeping.