“That's as old as the everlasting hills; but the old that's new is the newest thing in all creation,” said Meeks. “Sylvia is a foolish woman if she parts with this magnificent old piece for any reproduction made in job lots.”
“Oh, she isn't going to part with it. Mr. Allen will like it in his room. He thinks as much of it as you do.”
“He's right, too,” said Meeks. “There's carving for you; there's a fine grain of wood.”
“It's very hard to keep clean,” said Sylvia, as she came in rubbing her moist hands. “Now, that new Flemish oak is nothing at all to take care of, Mrs. Jones says.”
“This is worth taking care of,” said Meeks. “Now, Sylvia, sit down. I have something to tell you and Henry.”
Sylvia sat down. Something in the lawyer's manner aroused hers and her husband's keenest attention. They looked at him and waited. Both were slightly pale. Sylvia was a delicate little woman, and Henry was large-framed and tall, but a similar experience had worn similar lines in both faces. They looked singularly alike.
Sidney Meeks had the dramatic instinct. He waited for the silence to gather to its utmost intensity before he spoke. “I had something to tell you when I came in,” he said, “but I thought I had better wait till after supper.”
He paused. There was another silence. Henry's and Sylvia's eyes seemed to wax luminous.
Sidney Meeks spoke again. He was enjoying himself immensely. “What relation is Abrahama White to you?” he said.
“She is second cousin to Sylvia. Her mother was Sylvia's mother's cousin,” said Henry. “What of it?”