“That is the distinct advantage of quick-tempered relatives,” he affirmed.
“You will come now?”
“Yes,” he agreed readily. “And—it may be helpful—my name is Barnes.”
She shot a swift half-frightened smile at him. “And I am Miss Van Patten.”
He bowed.
She led the way to the house, the yellow cat by her side.
CHAPTER II
THE COURTESY OF THE ROAD
The little old lady sitting by the window in the big living-room, as serene as Whistler’s portrait of his mother, may have had a temper but if so, thought Barnes as he entered at the girl’s heels, it was concealed somewhere about her person other than in her face. She was in black with a white cap sitting as daintily light on her gray hair as the first flick of snow on a silver fir. She was a tiny body with shrewd black eyes and a firm thin mouth. Her wrinkled cheeks still had color. She was busy with a wisp of lace.
“Aunt Philomela, this is Mr. Barnes.”
The girl spoke the sentence as though it were one word. Aunt Philomela snapped up her head and leveled her astonished black eyes upon a young and decidedly good-looking stranger who was bowing low. Then she shot them at the girl who had turned towards him she had so abruptly introduced.