“Yes,” said Kitty timidly, “I have them with me. There are several—one a play.”
“Would it be too much,” Anthony began and halted.
“Mr. West means that he would like to read them,” Hilda remarked. “I think you might trust him,” she added, with a glint of amusement. “Really, Anthony, I never saw you so enthusiastic before!”
“Wait, Hilda, until I give you some cuttings of Hugh Carstairs’ articles to read. And you, Miss Carstairs, perhaps, when you know me better, you will allow me to look at the unfinished works.”
At this point Matilda brought in tea, and the conversation became less personal. Kitty was well content to listen. She was more than interested. The five years of barren drudgery in Dunford were forgotten. She was living in a new world, the world of her girlish dreams during the last year of her father’s life, the world he had promised he would show her—some day—when his ship came home. . . . And Hilda Risk, guessing what it meant to the girl, kept West talking of people and things in his profession, till with a start he noticed the hour, and rose to go.
Hilda went with him to the door. She had a question to ask.
“Anthony,” she said, “it’s not like you to gush. Did you really admire her father’s work so much?”
“Honestly, Hilda. Why, the man was a genius, though I’m afraid he didn’t make the most of himself. Possibly your brother has not mentioned that he knew Carstairs well.”
“John! He never told me!” she exclaimed.
“As a matter of fact,” he added. “John requested me to call on you this afternoon.”