Thomas' heart went down with a thud. So this was why she had sent for him, to consult him regarding the training of the boys. He had not known how her summons had inflated his hopes until this sickening collapse. It was only by an effort that he rallied his thoughts sufficiently to answer.
"Well, I wouldn't worry about that if I was you, Persis. Seems like all young things was taken the same way. Puppies are always squabbling, but 'tisn't that there's any hard feeling. They just want to try their teeth. Seems to me I'd be pretty worried over a boy who never wanted to fight."
Persis listened appreciatively. "Thank you, Thomas. It's a good thing for a woman who's bringing up a pair of boys to get a man's point of view now and then. I'm afraid I've kind of neglected those children this spring. I've been so taken up with Diantha Sinclair's wedding."
"She'll be a mighty pretty bride," observed Thomas, striving manfully to do his part in the conversational see-saw. "She looks a lot like her mother when—" He broke off, overwhelmed by the realization that he had introduced the one topic which should never have been mentioned between Persis and himself. Choking with mortification, turning deeply crimson as all the blood in his body seemed rushing toward his brain, he sat motionless, an unhappy martyr consumed in the fires of his own sensitiveness.
But something had given Persis a clew. She leaned forward, quite forgetful of her recent shrinking.
"Thomas, you remember what you told me about Annabel Sinclair the last time you were here?"
"Lord!" he panted, but her gaze held him mercilessly. "I'm not likely to forget it."
"What I want to know is this. How old was Annabel when—when you kissed her?"
Thomas drew out his handkerchief and mopped his damp forehead.
"Why, I s'pose she was fifteen or sixteen. She wasn't as tall as
Diantha is, and I guess she was a few years younger."