Old Van Brink and his wife made no impression on him at all. They were what he had expected—what they ought to be. He talked to them in his best manner, genial, very much at ease. He was ingenuously sure that they were kind and honest people, and that they admired him. All his interest centered on the calm little thing across the table.
Supper over, Van Brink retired to a rocking-chair with the newspaper, and his wife began to carry the dishes into the kitchen. The little thing looked at Tommy.
“Would you like to take a little walk?” she asked. “‘Most every one does—down to the village.”
“Charmed!” he assured her, with his inane magnificence. “Will you wait till I get my stick?”
So they set off together down the dark, tree-bordered street. It was cool and very quiet, with a wistful little breeze stirring in the leaves.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said Tommy contentedly.
“Oh, yes! I hope it will do you good,” the little thing answered benevolently.
Thanks, said Tommy, there wasn’t much wrong with him—he needed a rest, that was all.
“Well, you’ll get it, here!” said she, with a deep sigh.
“Why? Not much excitement?”