“Why are men always in such a hurry? If I were a man now—and an author—I should wait for moonlight, waves breaking on rocks, and all the rest of it.”
“All the old property business, in short. I am both a man and an author, therefore I know the folly of delay in this short life.”
“But suppose the door should open suddenly?”
“I have been here ten minutes, and it has not opened yet.”
“But it might, you know; and the small boys of this house are an exaggeration of all that have gone before. Ah! here comes some one. Sit down on that chair instantly.”
Miss Decker entered and looked deprecatingly at Boswell.
“You have come at last,” she said. “We were afraid something had happened to you. I cannot help this interruption, Jessica. Your grandmother is here and wants to see you immediately. She has been telegraphed for to go to Philadelphia; Mrs. Armstrong is very ill. I would not keep her waiting.”
“Poor grandma! To think of her being obliged to go to Philadelphia in September. Where is she?”
“In the yellow reception-room. Mr. Boswell will excuse you for a few minutes.”
Boswell bowed, his face stamped with gloom.