Ebner Ford waited until Miss Jane had timidly passed his door on her way out. Then he hurriedly shaved, put on his best suit of clothes, selected a fresh white tie, doused some of his wife’s lavender perfume on a clean handkerchief, and leaped up the stairs to Miss Ann’s door, which she had unfortunately left ajar.
She was darning her sister’s stockings when he knocked, and had barely time to hide them and seize her knitting before he thrust his head in with an ingratiating grin.
“Got so pesky lonesome down-stairs, thought I’d just come up and cheer you up,” he blurted out, unheeding her embarrassment. “Hope I’m not intrudin’—Emma’s gone with girlie to a show. Grand day, ain’t it, Miss Moulton?”
He had safely gained the centre of the room, an old trick with him in business interviews; doors marked “Private” or “No admission” had no terrors for Ford.
Miss Ann had sprung out of her chair by her sewing-table and stood helpless before him, flushed.
“And so you were left alone, Mr. Ford,” she said bravely, with dignified resignation.
“That’s about the size of it,” he laughed, selecting the sofa, and crossing his long legs, his head thrown back at his ease, as she reseated herself before him. “I’m not much on goin’ to shows,” he declared. “Seen too much of ’em. There wa’n’t a troupe that come to our town when I was a boy but what I’d tag after ’em and see ’em perform. Since I’ve had so many business cares I’ve kinder gotten out of goin’ to the theatre. S’pose you’re pretty crazy about ’em, Miss Moulton, ain’t you? Most women are.”
“I’ve never been to the theatre,” confessed Miss Ann quietly, her eyes upon her knitting.
He shot forward with a surprised smile, gripping his bony knees with his long hands.
“Well, say, that beats me!” he cried.