“They are just like other people, goosie,” put in Elinor, nevertheless looking at the picture with extreme interest.
“I always imagined the men were tall and thin with lantern jaws and long white beards, and the women were small and plain with straight hair twisted into scraggy little knots behind.”
They were still laughing over Nancy’s vague idea of the citizens of Salt Lake City when the Japanese servant gave them a start by appearing at the door as noiselessly as one who walked on air.
“Luncheon is served,” he announced rapidly in a funny high voice.
It was almost impossible to conceal from him their eagerness to be at table. Nancy secretly hoped there would be fried chicken, but she didn’t care really if only there were no canned vegetables in bird-seed dishes. They all wondered if their host would be able to appear despite his maimed leg.
But he was there to meet them, waiting in the living room of the farmhouse, which was fitted up quite comfortably with big easy chairs, an immense writing table, and many books on shelves lining the walls. Mr. Moore’s wholesome, manly face showed not a trace of the pain he had endured an hour ago, and when he led the way to the dining room, it was with only a slight limp.
“But I thought you had a bad sprain, Mr. Moore,” said Miss Campbell, “and here I find you walking as well as any of us.”
“It’s all gone,” he answered. “I—” he hesitated a moment. “I——”
But the fragrance of the viands about to be set before them drove all other thoughts from their minds.
It was all a curious adventure, indeed. Here was an entire stranger dispensing hospitality to them most graciously, and here were they, even that fastidious and dainty little lady, eating with appetites of starving people.