“It’s beautiful here,” he continued. “That field of yellow grain there is worth a journey to see.”
(“Poor crittur,” Miss Tribbey said in relating this afterwards. “Poor, ignorant crittur! Not knowing it’s a burning, heartsick shame to see grain that premature ripe with the hay standing in win’rows in the field, before his eyes.”)
“Ahem!” said Miss Tribbey, her visitor showing signs of relapsing again into that reverie which had made the interval of waiting seem as nothing to him, unconscious as he was of the narrowly averted tragedy with Miss Tribbey’s fruit.
But face to face with her he was too sensitive not to recognize her impatience with his dallying mood. He roused himself and turned towards her with a frank and boyish smile.
“I’m bothering you,” he said, “and doubtless keeping you from something important.”
“I’m making jell,” said she briefly, her attitude growing tense.
“Have you heard Mr. Lansing speak of Sidney Martin?” he asked. “In reference to his coming to stay here this summer? I’m Sidney Martin, and I want to come, if it is convenient to receive me, the beginning of next week, and——”
“Come where?” demanded Temperance.
“Here,” said Sidney, a little embarrassed.
“To this house?”