“I don’t know yet. We gave up our place at the shore two years ago. The salt air does not agree with me any too well; and neither Molly nor I care for it particularly.”
There was a pause, and the guest felt that the wife’s death might have saddened the pleasant memories in the house by the sea. As if struck with an idea, he laid down his fork and exclaimed:
“Why not come to Daleford? There is a house all furnished and ready for you! My daughter and her husband are going abroad, and you could have it until November if you wished.”
“Where is that, Sam?”
“Well,” said Mr. Fettiplace, closing his eyes in a profound calculation, “I am weak at figures, but on the map it is north of Hartford and about a quarter of an inch below the Massachusetts border.”
Mr. Cabot laughed. “I remember you were always weak at figures. What is it, a fashionable resort?”
“Not at all. If that is what you are after, don’t think of it.”
“But it is not what we are after,” said Molly. “We want a quiet place to rest and read in.”
“With just enough walking and driving,” put in the father, “to induce us to eat and sleep a little more than is necessary.”
“Then Daleford is your place,” and the huge guest, with his head to one side, rolled his light-blue eyes toward Molly.