The man appeared singularly disquieted by this intelligence. “I hadn’t heard that,” he said. “Dead—a long time? Well!”
He scowled, flourishing his stick as if to pass on; then settled to his former posture, his pale hands folded on its handsome gold top.
“Cephas Dix wasn’t an old man,” he muttered, as if talking to himself. “Not old. He should be hale and hearty, living in this good country air. Wonderful air this, my dear.”
And he drew a deep breath, his wandering gaze returning swiftly to the girl’s face.
“I was just walking out,” he said, nodding briskly. “Great treat to be able to walk out. I shall walk out whenever I like. Don’t care for automobiles—get you over the road too fast. No, no; I won’t go out in the automobile, unless I feel like it! No, I won’t; and there’s an end of it!”
He brought his stick down heavily in the dust, as if emphasizing this statement.
“Guess your father left you pretty well off, eh, my dear?” he went on presently. “Glad to see you looking so fresh and neat. Always like to see a pretty girl well dressed.”
The man’s eyes, extraordinarily bright and keen, roved nimbly over her face and figure.
“No, he did not,” replied Ellen. “My father used to be rich,” she went on. “I’ve heard mother tell about it hundreds of times. We had horses and a carriage and plenty of money; but when the bank went to pieces my father lost everything. Then he died.”
The man was peering at her from under his shaggy gray brows.