“Certainly. That is, if—if you think it wise. If your mother—”
“Oh, Mother has long ago given up trying to solve me. I am a greater puzzle to her than you seem to be to everyone, Mr. Paine. I have spoken to my father about it and he is quite willing. His difference with you is purely a business one, as you know.”
Some of the “business” had been oddly conducted, but I did not raise the point. I could not reason just then. That this spoiled, city-bred daughter of “Big Jim” Colton should wish to know my mother was beyond reasoning.
She said good morning and we parted. I walked home, racking my brains to find the answer to this new conundrum. It was a whim on her part, of course, inspired by something George or Nellie had told her. I did not know whether to resent the whim or not, whether to be angry or indifferent. If she intended to inspect Mother as a possible object of future charity I should be angry and the first call would be the last. But Mother herself would settle all questions of charity; I knew that. And the girl had not spoken in a patronizing way. She had declared that idle curiosity had no part in her wish. She seemed in earnest. What would Mother say when I told her?
Lute was just coming through the gate as I approached it. He was in high good humor.
“I'm goin' up street,” he declared. “Anything you want me to fetch you from the store, Ros?”
I looked at my watch. It was only eleven o'clock.
“Up street?” I repeated. “I thought you were slated to wash windows this forenoon. I heard Dorinda give you your orders to that effect. You haven't finished washing them already?”
“No,” with a broad grin, “I ain't finished 'em. Fact is, I ain't begun 'em yet.”
“So! Does Dorinda know that you are going up street?”