“Hoping you will the same, I beg to remain,” he concluded, quoting from the personal circular letter of the Acme.
John went out with a brisker step than he had shown for a number of days, and in at the other door, with an even brisker step, came Eleanor.
It would be difficult to imagine a fairer harbinger of peace than she, and yet it required all her best efforts to dissipate the cloud which hung over the breakfast table that morning. Barnes, who was always ready to assist at such an undertaking, was strangely silent, while Aunt Philomela refused to enthuse even over the marked change for the better in her brother’s condition. Everyone was glad when the meal was finished. When they rose, Carl had not yet appeared. Barnes braced himself to the task ahead. As Miss Van Patten stood uncertain just what to do next, he suggested that she come with him into the flower-garden for a breath of the morning air. She appeared a bit startled but acquiesced, and so they made their way out doors.
Just how far it was his right to go, just how far it was his duty as a brother to go, Barnes did not know, but that he must say something in view of what was coming he had no doubt. She was bending over her flowers plucking off dead leaves when he began.
“Eleanor,” he said, “your father seemed to be very much interested in Carl this morning.”
“Indeed?”
“Very much interested,” he repeated.
She gave him no encouragement. He looked about anxiously.
“He and I both agreed that Carl is a fine fellow,” he observed. She raised her head at this. She looked at him without embarrassment.
“Carl is an artist,” she said. “You and Carl ought to have much in common.”