“I like it better cold,” said Horace, cheerfully.
Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. “Where on earth have you been?” she demanded.
Horace answered for her. “We went to walk, and sat down under a tree in the orchard and talked; and we hadn't any idea how the time was passing,” he said.
Henry and Meeks cast a relieved glance at each other. It did not appear that an announcement was to be made that night. After supper, when Meeks left, Henry strolled down the street a little way with him.
“I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow,” he said. “Sylvia was all wrought up about their being late to supper, and she wouldn't have got a mite of sleep.”
“You don't think anything will be said to-night?”
“No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go to bed right after supper, and Rose said, ‘Very well, Aunt Sylvia,’ in that way she has. I never saw a human being who seems to take other people's orders as Rose does.”
“Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some writing,” said Meeks. “That may have made a difference to the girl. Reckon she knew spooning was over for to-day.”
Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows on the second floor. “Rose is going to bed,” he said. “That light's in her room.”
“She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, poor little thing,” said Meeks. In his voice was an odd mixture of tenderness, admiration, and regret. “You've got your wife,” he said, “but I wonder if you know how lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes, when he thinks of how he's lived and what he's missed. To think of a girl having a face like that for a man. Good Lord!”