"You will see that if I had not happened to be at home, it might have been a very serious matter. I must ask you to consider my position, and discourage your friends in paying any attention to me."
This, too, he tore up, with a smothered word. It wouldn't do; if he wounded her too much, she was capable of taking the next train—! And so he wrote, with non-committal brevity:
"I have to be in Mercer Friday night, and I think I can get down to Old Chester for a few hours between stages on Saturday. I hope your cook has recovered, and we can have some dinner? Tell David he can get his sling ready; and do, for Heaven's sake, fend off visitors!" Then he added a postscript: "I want you all to myself." He smiled as he wrote that, but half shook his head. He did not (such was his code) enjoy being agreeable for a purpose. "But I can't help it," he thought, frowning; "she is so very difficult, just now."
He was right about the postscript; she read the letter with a curl of her lip. "'A few hours,'" she said; then—"'I want you all to myself.'" The delicate color flooded into her face; she crushed the letter to her lips, her eyes running over with laughing tears.
"Oh, David," she cried,—"let's go and tell Maggie—we must have such a dinner! He's coming!"
"Who?" said David.
"Why, Mr. Pryor, dear little boy. I want you to love him. Will you love him?"
"I'll see," said David; "is Alice coming?"
Instantly her gayety flagged. "No, dear, no!"
"Well; I guess she's too old to play with;" David consoled himself; "she's nineteen."