“I thank you, I thank you, Miss Julie,” he said gratefully. It was the first time he had dared the intimacy of her Christian name. He helped himself, and, fortified by her creative touch, held the waffle suspended upon his fork for a moment’s approving contemplation.
“My!” he said, with the air of a connoisseur, “That’s about the finest thing in the way of waffle-flesh I ever did see. I’d recommend you to try one of this batch, Brother Seabrook,” he urged.
“Well, I thought I was about done, but if you advise it, Brother Bixby—” Brother Seabrook hesitated.
“I don’t just advise you to take one, I prescribe it for your health,” Mr. Bixby returned; at which every one laughed except Elizabeth, who was furious over his being allowed any personality.
But for the other two Julie had opened the door and let him in, so that he emerged into their consciousness as some one to be taken into account. Brother Seabrook fell into talk with him about the war, and as to the possibility of his draft call, ignoring Elizabeth’s ruffled attempts to draw the conversation back to herself. The supper came to an end presently, and to Elizabeth’s chagrin, Mrs. Johnson accepted her perfunctory offer to help with the dishes.
“Yes,” she said, “you stay with me, Mis’ Bixby, an’ we’ll let Julie go out to the porch an’ entertain the men-folks for a spell. She needs a rest an’ cool-off ’fore we go to the show.”
“Well, you picked a poor hand to help you,” Elizabeth said tartly. “If there’s one thing I do despise, it’s dirty dishes. Here, Tim!” she cried to her husband; and then, realizing that if she called him back that would leave Brother Seabrook in a tête-à-tête with Julie, she said, “Oh, well, go on then”; for she suspected in the minister an interest in Julie which she resented. Her manœuvres were all so obvious and usually so futile, that Julie, informed by that wider understanding, felt a sudden pity for her.
“I’ll stay and help you with the dishes,” she offered.
But this Aunt Sadie would not allow. “No, you go on now, Julie; you’ve done your bit. You go out on the porch an’ cool off,” she ordered.
While the table was being cleared, Julie and the two men sat together in the dusk of the side porch. Julie did not talk much. She did not want to. She was slightly tired, and was content to listen to the other two. She liked to hear Mr. Bixby. It was amazing how much he found to say when the stifling incubus of Elizabeth was withdrawn. For a time the talk was still about the war, but presently it drifted away to other topics, and as that was left behind, Julie was conscious that there appeared in his voice a note of relief and picking up of interest. He talked more quickly and easily, describing the matter of printing. His father, it appeared, had been a printer before him. He had learned the trade from him. He said, “I like it.” He said that over frequently in variations. “Somehow I like it. I like a good bit of printing,” and “I liked it from the first, when I was just a kid.” He made what he said interesting: so much so that Brother Seabrook was glad to listen and said, “Well, well, is that so?” frequently. Neither of the men spoke especially to Julie, yet she knew that they were both aware of her presence, and stimulated by it.