Overhanging eyebrows of iron-gray were the first thing to arrest attention in Matthew Loring’s face. They shadowed dark expressive eyes in a swarthy setting. His hair and mustache were of the same grey, and very bushy. He had the broad head and square jaw of the aggressive type. Not a large man, even in his prime, he looked almost frail as he settled back in his chair. He was probably sixty, but looked older.
“Still knitting socks, Mistress Nesbitt?” he inquired, with a caustic smile. “Charming occupation. Do you select that quality and color for any beauties to be found in them? I can remember seeing your mother using knitting needles on this very veranda thirty––yes, forty years ago. But I must say I never saw her make anything heavier than lace. And what’s all this, Gertrude? Do you entertain your visitors these days by dragging out the old linen for their inspection? 134 Why are you dallying with the servants’ tasks?”
“No; it is my own task, uncle,” returned his niece, with unruffled serenity. “Not a very beautiful one, but consoling because of its usefulness.”
“Usefulness––huh! In your mother’s day ladies were not expected to be useful.”
“Alas for us that the day is past,” said the girl, tearing off another strip of muslin.
“Now, do you wonder that I adore my Judge?” whispered Evilena to Delaven.
CHAPTER XIII.
Despite his natural irritability, to which no one appeared to pay much attention, Mr. Loring grew almost cordial under the geniality and hopefulness emanating from Judge Clarkson, whom he was really very glad to see, and of whom he had numberless queries to ask regarding the hostilities of the past few months.