"Well, I never could see any sense in him living up there all alone in that great gloomy mansion, when other people—any quantity of them—would be willing to share the goods the gods have given him."
The little silver and marble clock on the bracket ticks the minutes hastily away.
"I am glad to hear that; would you, my dear little friend, be 'one' of the 'any quantity' you just spoke of?"
Both Zoe and Aunt Adeline are startled by the grave voice behind them. Mr. Blois Vacine, past sixty years of age, and owner of the finest properties in the town, seldom leaves his home of gloomy grandeur; and Zoe mentally calculates, as Miss Litchfield goes forward to greet the visitor, that something more wonderful than usual is about to take place after this.
"Father home?" Mr. Vacine inquires, coming over to the window where Zoe is standing. Evidently the power of speech has deserted the ever ready-tongued young lady.
"No sir; yes—that is—I don't know," she stammers. She feels horribly ashamed of herself for having spoken as she had done; and yet it was in her own house, and if people can't say what they wish in their own house, pray where would they? and another thing, it was decidedly mean to come into a house without first ringing the bell to announce one's coming.
"Oh well, probably he will not be gone long, and meanwhile you and I can have a little friendly chat," Mr. Vacine says cheerfully.
Zoe politely asks if he will not take the easy chair aunt Adeline has just vacated.
"And so you don't believe in people being mean and stingy with their worldly gifts. But even wealth, after a time, grows monotonous; we very seldom find the pleasure we expect, even in the success of our highest ambitions. I am a lonely old man, my dear; once I had a dear nephew, of whom I was too fond; I said something passionate; he took offence at his old uncle, and left me. But never mind, I would be only too glad if you would look upon my house and grounds as your own, to come and go in at your pleasure."
Zoe's eyes dance, and her heart beats with delightful anticipation. The dream of her life has been to be allowed to pass beyond the heavy iron gates, with their fantastic guardians of lions' heads, and wander at will in the dim, unknown depths of the paradise of flowers beyond; and the house, the dear old rambling castle of which she has heard so much. Poor Zoe, for some minutes she is unable to speak.