“On the next visit he’ll not miss a thing,” stated Scanlon, confidently.
As they arose from the table Miss Hohenlo went to a window, raised it and looked out over the country, now dimming under the hand of dusk.
“If Schwartzberg had nothing else in its favour,” she said, vivaciously, “we could always fall back upon the glorious weather. And to-night,” with a gesture of the beautiful hands, “is more than usually splendid.”
As she stood there, framed in the high window, the spinster looked even more angular than Scanlon had supposed her to be. Her faded hair threw back nothing that the lamp-light gave it; her neck was thin, her arms were long and awkward. Near her stood the stately Miss Knowles, magnificent in her youth, her height, her long soft lines. The girl’s complexion was more like cream and roses than ever; the splendid crown of yellow hair was built up in a shining mass.
Striking as was her beauty, and much as he would have liked to stand and admire it, Bat Scanlon’s interest was called to something else. The actions of Miss Hohenlo at the window were commonplace enough, and yet, somehow, Miss Knowles seemed to attach much importance to them. The girl stood talking with Campe. Their tones were low; and the young man’s face had lost the strained look. The fear, which usually held its place so fixedly in his eyes, was gone for the time, and an eagerness had replaced it.
“Fine for him!” was Bat’s mental comment. “If it don’t do anything else, the entertainment will rest him up for a little, and that’s something. And,” here his mouth twisted slightly at the corner, “the lady is as interested as he is, but not at the same thing.”
There was a subtle something going on which the big man did not grasp; that it was proceeding was plain enough; but its meaning was lost upon him.
“I’m muffing it,” was his thought. “Right under it, too. It must be,” sadly, “that the grand stand’s too big; a minor leaguer never does get a right slant at anything until he’s out of the bush for a season. Kirk ought to be here.”
“How deep the shadows grow on the east of the hills,” remarked Miss Hohenlo, sentimentally. “I love to watch them as they thicken and lengthen in the evening.” She leaned farther from the window, a hand outstretched. “There is only the faintest of breezes,” she continued, “so little that one can scarcely detect its direction.”
At this, the watching Scanlon saw the blue eyes of Miss Knowles narrow; the look of interest upon her face deepened.