“My dear, I don’t know him!” answered Miss Carter, as if surprised.
But Maude, though young, was also a woman, and she knew what a deceitful answer this was.
“Yes, but—” she said, and paused. “You know, auntie, he’s a very remarkable man,” she went on briskly.
“Oh, indeed, is he?” replied Miss Carter pleasantly.
Well, she didn’t think so. When called, Mr. Rhodes came in from the veranda, took his place at the table, and ate his dinner. He said yes, the weather was cool for this time of the year, and no, he hadn’t been in this part of the State before, and yes, thanks, he would have a little more of the fricassee, and the roses on the table were very fine, and he liked roses. Remarkable, was he?
“A wooden Indian!” said Miss Carter to herself.
It hurt her to see Maude sitting there, with shining eyes and flushed cheeks, fairly hanging on the man’s words, and to see that he never looked at the girl in that way. When he did look at her—which was not often—he wore a kind, grown-up sort of smile which Miss Carter thought detestable. He did not appreciate Maude. Miss Carter was sorry she had made ice cream, and she wouldn’t let him have a single doughnut.
When dinner was over, they all went out on the veranda. Dusk had settled over the garden, and the stars were out, faint in the violet sky. A breeze stirred in the leaves of the old trees and swayed the gay little flowers, which, scarlet or blue or orange, all looked white now. It was a lovely night. Even the disapproving and indignant Miss Carter yielded a little to its softening influence, and was silent, thinking of the old, dear things that haunted her garden.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” came Mr. Rhodes’s deep, quiet voice from the dark corner where he sat.
“Oh, no!” said Miss Carter, somewhat frigidly polite.