In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look. She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.
“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.
Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”
She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.
“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.
Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”
Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”
“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She held it out.