Uncle William looked at him again and settled slowly into the doorway—filling it, with the big, checked apron about him—“You ain’t ever seen Celia, I reckon?” he said.
“Don’t believe I have,” responded
George. He was looking across the harbor, turning the bit of grass between his teeth. His glance sought the envelope again, “Come from around here?” he asked.
Uncle William opened it with slow, careful fingers. “Well, not exactly round here.” He drew out the sheet and smoothed it on his knee and rubbed his fingers on his apron, and took up the paper, holding it arm’s length. “It’s somebody ’t ’s coming to live with us,” he explained kindly.
“Oh—?”
Uncle William read on. He laid down the paper and took off his glasses, waving them at the landscape. “Some like a woman!” he said.
George turned and looked behind him.
“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.”
“Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a little contemptuous.
Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with women, was ye, George?”