“Why—why, Uncle Foster!” she cried. “Of course he won’t come there!”
He smiled, grimly. “Won’t he?” he observed. “Humph! I notice there are other young squirts dropping in on us now and then, these days. Maybe he won’t, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Judging by the way he stood up to me about that picture he’ll do ’most anything he sets out to do, or try to, anyhow.... Humph! Well, we’ll see.”
Esther was overwhelmed. Knowing, as she did, how fiercely bitter was the hatred borne by her uncle to any one remotely connected with the name of Cook, such a concession as this amounted to tremendous personal sacrifice. And he was making that sacrifice solely because of her. If any compelling force was needful to strengthen her resolve to keep the promise just made this proof of his devotion furnished it. She then and there made up her mind that, if Bob did call—which, of course, he would not—she would not be too cordial. She would be nice to him, just as she was to others, but she would not encourage him to call often. And, if the calls became too frequent, she would see that they were discontinued. And Captain Foster Townsend, looking down at her as she walked in silence beside him, guessed her thought and smiled in triumph.
His estimate of the young man’s determination and character was soon proved correct. On an evening of that same week the Townsend doorbell rang. The maid was out and Nabby opened the door. She came back to the library wearing an expression which caused her employer to look at her in surprise.
“Well?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Is the meeting-house on fire?”
Nabby shook her head. “It’s somebody come,” she stammered.
Esther, who was reading a book, looked up. Her uncle sniffed impatiently.
“Somebody come!” he repeated, with sarcasm. “Humph! You surprise me! Naturally, when I heard the bell ring I thought it was somebody just going.... Well, well! Who is it? Don’t you know?”
Mrs. Gifford nodded. “Course I know!” she declared. “If I didn’t know I wouldn’t have been so took back. It’s—” she leaned forward to whisper the incredible name—“it’s a Cook!”
Townsend did not understand. “A cook!” he snorted. “Whose cook? What does she want? What in the devil is she doing at the front door?”