Certainly Lanty Lansing “had a way” with women that was well-nigh irresistible.
“Yes,” she said, then with comical apology, she addressed herself to Sidney. “Them children is a most tormented trouble, ’specially when they meddle with things they don’t know nothing about.”
“That’s so,” agreed Sidney with emphasis, and Temperance, highly delighted with her Parthian shot at him, departed.
And presently Mabella came to the door, a riante little figure, and demanded with mutinous affectation of indifference:
“Did any one want me?”
“Yes, badly,” said Sidney, and took himself off to the garden, laughing.
“That’s true,” said Lanty. “I did want you badly.”
Her eyes were wavering beneath his masterful regard, but she said—“Oh, you did want me! Don’t you now?” The words were brave, but her eyes fell.
“Mabella,” he said—silence. “Mabella, look at me.” Slowly she raised her eyes and crimsoned. “Do you know now?” he asked lovingly. “Ah, what a wicked teasing bird it is when its wings are free, but after all they are gone to the barn and——” he advanced a step.