“I should be better if they didn’t bother me,” he said. “They keep coming to see whether I’m alive, and sending messages to enquire. Confound them!” he exclaimed, with a momentary return of energy. “They couldn’t send more flowers if the undertaker were in the house! What does an old fellow like me want of flowers, I should like to know? They may turn my grave into a flower show if they like, when I’m tucked away in it, but I wish they’d leave me alone till I am!”
“Who are they?” asked Katharine, with some curiosity.
“The tribe, as you call the family. Your mother’s one. Didn’t she tell you she sent me flowers?”
“No—I’ll tell her not to.”
“Don’t do that, little girl. You just let her alone. If she were the only one—I shouldn’t care. I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything, you know—and then, it means something when she sends them, because she works for them and earns the money. But why the dickens the three Miss Miners should think it necessary to send me American Beauties in cardboard boxes, I can’t conceive. They’re comfortably off enough, now, but that’s no reason, and they can’t stand the expense of that sort of thing long. Perhaps they think it won’t last long. Of course it’s well meant. I made Beman give them a lift with some little stocks they had lying round, and he took an interest in the thing, I suppose, for I hear that they’re very comfortable—ten thousand a year amongst the four of them, with Frank—and I suppose he earns something with all his writings, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. The Century gave him a hundred and fifty dollars for an article the other day. He was so pleased! You have no idea!”
“I daresay,” said the great millionaire, gravely. “Very nice, too—a hundred and fifty for one article. Well—he’s another. He sends me all he writes—there’s a heap of things on the table, there. That’s his corner, you know, because he’s the literary man of the family. And he scribbles me little notes with them. He’s rather humble about his work—for he says he’d really be glad if anything he turned out could help to pass the time for me. Well—it’s nice of him, I know. But it irritates me, somehow. As for that Crowdie, he’s the worst of the lot—as he’s the cleverest. By the bye, what day is to-day—Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Yes—it’s Thursday. Why?”
“Well—he’s coming before luncheon to-day. It appears that he’s painted a picture of you. I think you said something about it last winter, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I told you I was sitting to him. He painted it for Hester. She’s my great friend, you know.”