Later, when her husband, full of concern at her discomfort, came upstairs to sit on the edge of her bed and ask her how she felt, she told him what had happened.
"I wouldn't see him for anything," she said, gasping; "even his voice just about killed me! Oh, Carl, suppose I were to like him? Oh, what shall I do?—I don't want to like him."
"Why, my dear, it would be all right if you did," he tried to reassure her. "There's no reason why you shouldn't see him once in a while—and like him, too. I like him, though I haven't spoken to him. But I'm going to."
"Oh, Carl, don't—" she besought him.
But he said: "Don't worry. You know I would never do anything rash."
And the next day he stopped boldly at Miss Lydia's door, and talked about the weather, and gave Johnny a dollar.
"Go downstreet and buy something," he said.
And Johnny said, "Thank you, sir!" and went off, whistling.
"He's a promising boy," Mr. Robertson said, in a low voice.
Miss Lydia was extremely nervous during this five minutes. She had been nervous during the weeks that Mary and Carl were up there in the big house. Suppose they should see just how "promising" Johnny was—and want him?—and say they would take him? Then she would reassure herself: "They can only take their son—and they don't want him!" Yet she was infinitely relieved when, the next day, the Smith house was finally closed and the "For Sale or To Let" sign put up on the iron gates that shut the graveled driveway from Old Chester's highroad.