“Hezekiah Wilkins, an answer of that sort kills conversation. You give me a sociable reply.”
The muffling sandwiches had been gotten rid of. “Fascinated,” he suggested.
“Fascinated by a serpent,” sniffed Mrs. Henderson.
The inference that Obadiah was a reptile failed to effect the appetite of his legal adviser. He appropriated another sandwich.
“Why do you work for him, anyway?” she demanded sharply.
“Money,” confessed Hezekiah, between bites.
“Hezekiah, there is something about your conversation which irritates me. I think that its brevity gets on my nerves.” She gave him a questioning look. “I want to talk seriously with an old friend, Hezekiah. I want to ask him to do something for me.”
He stopped eating and turned towards her. The humor had faded from his face and in its place was a certain sweetness with much of sorrow in it. “Over twenty years ago, you asked me to be a brother to you, Mary,” he said softly. “I have always tried to be a good one–to be ready to obey your slightest wish.”
There was pain and pity in her countenance as she reached over and patted his hand. “I know it, Hezekiah,” she whispered. “You have been too good a brother to me. You should have married.” There was a catch in her voice and her eyes were moist, when she continued, “I never intended to condemn you to a life of loneliness when I married Tom Henderson.”
His thoughts flew back over the long years. “It has been lonely, Mary,” he admitted. “Are you sorry that I could not forget?”