Eugene, however, would not seat himself while his hostess was standing, and contented himself with leaning against it.
The sergeant excused himself, and went away to change his uniform; while Mrs. Hardy, between the intervals of stirring the dish on the stove, looked curiously at Eugene over her shoulder.
She was dressed all in white; and there was something so attractive and unique in her appearance, in her fresh face and her snowy hair, that the boy had difficulty in keeping himself from staring at her.
“So your grandfather is dead,” she said in a low voice, as if she were talking to herself. “You must feel badly about it, though you are only a boy.”
Eugene, without knowing why, felt himself growing sorry for her because she was sorry for him.
“One must suffer in this world,” he said patronizingly. “It is fate.”
“You are young to have found that out,” said the woman quietly. Then, before he could answer her, she said, “Do you like oyster stew?”
“I shall eat with pleasure anything that you prepare, madam,” said the boy courteously; “and, indeed, that is one of my favorite dishes—allow me to assist you;” and he hurried forward to help her in carrying the dish to the near dining-room.
“Did you hear me say that there would not be enough oysters for three?” asked Mrs. Hardy, fixing her bright blue eyes on the boy’s face.