She smiled a little wistfully. “He won’t have me,” she said.
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “You come up, and if he don’t marry you, I will.”
A bell sounded somewhere. She started. “I must go.” A thought crossed her face. “I wonder if you would like it—the recital?” She was looking at him, an amused question in her eyes.
“Is it speaking pieces?” said Uncle William, cautiously.
“Playing them, and singing—one or two. It’s a musicale, you know. You might like it—” She was still thinking, her forehead a little wrinkled. “They are nice girls and—Oh—?” the forehead suddenly lifted, “you would like it. There are sea-pieces—MacDowell’s. They’re just the thing.—” She held him hospitably.—“Do come. You would be sure to enjoy it.”
“Like enough,” said Uncle William. “It takes all kinds of singing to make a world. I might like ’em fust-rate. And it won’t take long?”
“No—only an hour or two. You can leave him, can’t you?” The pretty forehead had wrinkled again.
“Easy as not,” said Uncle William. “Best thing for him. He’ll have a chance to miss me a little.”
She smiled at him reproachfully. “We’ll have to hurry, I’m afraid. It’s only a step. But we ought to go at once.”
Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe movements of the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned away, she seemed larger, more vigorous. “A reg’lar clipper, and built for all kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I wouldn’t be afraid to trust her anywheres. She’d reef down quick in a blow.” He chuckled to himself.