Zoe looks at him in amazement. Had a bombshell suddenly gone off at her feet in the pretty sitting room, her eyes would not have fairly popped out of her head as they did now.
"Why, do you know my sister? You can't; at least she never mentioned your name."
Mr. Glen laughs, toys with his watch chain, and, does his face become just a trifle red?
"I am judging from the picture, my dear little girl."
Zoe resents being called his "dear little girl," so she says, "Oh, indeed," very stiffly. She goes on with her sketching, but its charm has gone. She has a strong, very strong impression that this young man and Dolores have met. But why has Dolores never told her? Perfect confidence has hitherto existed between them. Surely Dolores would not have any secrets from her. She would love to question Mr. Glen about it, but pride forbids. If there is anything to tell, Dolores will let her know when she thinks proper. So Zoe works on, and Mr. Glen turns the leaves of the books over listlessly. It is evident his thoughts are far away from the pretty room he is in, and the young girl, who looks at him from time to time, as some one has said, "out of the corner of her eye."
Mr. Glen had been an inmate of Mr. Litchfield's household for a week now. Aunt Adeline was generally averse to having either small boys or big boys around her house, but here she was wonderfully taken. Mr. Glen was her ideal of all that a young gentleman should be. Mr. Litchfield discussed the topics of the day with him; there was no subject but what he was thoroughly versed in: a brilliant musician, with a fine tenor voice, a capital hand at whist, and if there was one thing that delighted Mr. Litchfield's heart more than another, it was to have some one to sympathise with him in this his favorite after-tea game. And Zoe? Well, he could paint, draw or sketch, and that with a true artist's eye for the beautiful. One of Zoe's drawings was quite another article after Mr. Glen had touched up and smoothed over the flaws. So in spite of their first unfortunate introduction, Zoe has accepted his being there as a thing to be tolerated. He lets her have her own way, and that is all Zoe cares about.
The soft warm breeze floats in at the open doors and windows, laden with the heavy perfume of flowers. The tall white and scarlet lilies in the garden nod and bob their stately heads. A bird, just outside in a tree, is pouring forth his joyous song of gladness; it is an ideal day in summer. Jet Glen, as he sits over there in the window, is "having it out" with his conscience. The reason he is here is to find out all he can, and as much more as possible. It was an anxious moment, when he got within thirty or forty miles of the place, how to proceed further; but fortune is good as well as fickle. He had greatly ventured, and all must do so who would greatly win. A former school mate was in the railway carriage; he was down with the blues. He had been invited to join a fishing party, with a number of other young friends. Suddenly, on the very day before they were to start, his mother, who was a woman of many minds, commanded him to give up his intended cruise and go down to the country to stop with her old school friend, Miss Adeline Litchfield. So, like an obedient son, he was on his way. This was just the chance for Jet's attaining his desired haven. Within less than an hour Jet Barry Traleigh was passing himself off as Jet Glen, the son of her school friend, and Miss Litchfield was delighted. And yet there was nothing, no, not a look, smile, gesture or tone of voice that recalled the remembrance of his mother. Poor deluded aunt Adeline, if you could see the real Jet Glen disporting himself with his holiday friends, what would you say?
They had all received him so cordially Jet's conscience pricked him most severely. But it was no use going back now; what he had done could not be undone.
The sun suddenly flashes full upon Zoe's work; she rubs her eyes, and wonders if Mr. Glen has gone to sleep, or why in the world is he sitting there, staring so idiotically at a photo of herself and Dolores when they were quite small children? But in all probability he is inwardly dying of laughter, commenting on the two thin little pairs of legs dangling from the high chair, in which they are seated, and criticising the braided pig-tails under the little round straw hats. How many times Dolores and herself have laughed over the closely shut lips, and demurely folded hands and short frocks. But for this young man to commit a like action was justly unpardonable. Then she thinks she is playing the part of hostess rather lamely.
"Say, Mr. Glen," Zoe pushes her chair back, and proceeds briskly to gather up her working implements. "Shall we go finish the game of tennis we were playing yesterday?"