“For what she didn’t get. She wouldn’t have got it from me, anyhow, but you saved me the trouble of tellin’ her so and, maybe, losin’ us a customer. Do you remember that man in the Bible who wanted bread and somebody gave him a stone? Well, that Wheeler woman wanted news and what she got was a tough beefsteak. Serve her right. Much obliged to you, Abbie.”
Abbie had not listened to the last part of this speech. Now she clapped her hands in satisfaction.
“There!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got it at last. When you said somethin’ about a stone it came to me. Stone made me think of brick and brick was what I wanted. That man’s name is Clay. Tut, tut! Well, I shan’t forget it next time.”
That evening, when Esther came down to supper, it seemed to her that her uncle was in far better humor than he had been for some time. During the past week he had been somewhat taciturn and grumpy. She suspected that matters connected with the lawsuit might not be progressing to his satisfaction, but when she asked he brusquely told her that was all right enough, so far as it went, although it went almighty slow. Then her suspicions shifted and she began to fear that, perhaps, he did not like Bob’s calling so frequently. He had never offered objections to the calls, greeted the young man pleasantly and usually left the pair together for the greater part of the evening. Nevertheless—or so she fancied—his greetings were a trifle less hearty now than they had been at first. And, on the morning following Griffin’s most recent call, he said something at the breakfast table which was disturbing. She had thought of it many times since.
“Well,” he observed, after the maid had left them together, “how is the great picture painter these days? Getting to be a pretty regular visitor, isn’t he? Coming again Tuesday night, I suppose? Eh?”
Esther, taken by surprise, colored and hesitated.
“Why—why, I don’t know, Uncle Foster,” she faltered. “He didn’t say he was.”
“Didn’t need to, perhaps. Probably thought you might take it for granted by this time. Tuesdays and Fridays on his calendar seem to be marked with your initials. Those other young chaps who used to drop in here once in a while appear to have sheered off. I wonder why.”
Esther looked at him. He was smiling, so she smiled also.
“If you mean George Bartlett,” she said. “He has gone back to Boston. His vacation is over. And Fred Winthrop is—well, I don’t know why he doesn’t come, I am sure. I don’t like him, anyway.”