Late in the afternoon Blythe,—after submitting to an interview at the hands of A. Lincoln Pollock,—sat alone before the fire, his long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for a long, long time halfway to his lips. He was staring abstractedly into the neglected fire.
His sister came in. He was not aware of her entrance until she appeared directly in front of him.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, blinking.
"What is on your mind, Addy?"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Where is Alix?"
"Writing letters. There were two or three she has to get off before we start for town." She sat down on the arm of his chair. "You may as well tell me what you really think of him, Addison. Isn't he good enough for her?"
He lowered his voice. The frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes.
"I can't make him out, Mary," he said, lowering his voice.
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.