“Oh, no, unless you wish it,” she answered. “Shall—may I give it to you?”
“Will you?” he exclaimed delightedly. “That would be fine. I shall feel like a regular Clarence.”
She was going to sit at the table in a straight-backed chair, but he sprang at her.
“This big one is more comfortable,” he said, and he dragged it forward and made her sit in it. “You ought to have a footstool,” he added, and he got one and put it under her feet. “There, that's all right.”
A footstool, as though she were a royal personage and he were a gentleman in waiting, only probably gentlemen in waiting did not jump about and look so pleased. The cheerful content of his boyish face when he himself sat down near the table was delightful.
“Now,” he said, “we can ring up for the first act.”
She filled the tea-pot and held it for a moment, and then set it down as though her feelings were too much for her.
“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she quavered happily. “I do indeed.”
“But it's a nice one, ain't it?” he answered. “I feel as if I was in two. Sitting here in this big room with all these fine things about me, and having afternoon tea with a relation! It just about suits me. It didn't feel like this yesterday, you bet your life!”
“Does it seem—nicer than yesterday?” she ventured. “Really, Mr. Temple Barholm?”