"Ah, you have thought differently since you first spoke. Well, it is all right; there is not so much to interest one, perhaps, as I imagine." There is a ring of disappointment in the old man's voice, and Zoe hastens to say,
"My dear Mr. Vacine, believe me, I am not ungrateful to you for your goodness, and will take much pleasure in your kind offer," the girl says, with a choking in her throat.
Aunt Adeline comes in with lights, saying Mr. Litchfield was feeling so unwell, that he had retired. So Zoe accompanies Mr. Vacine to the door, watches him walk down the little path to the gate with a step as firm and elastic as a boy of twenty.
"Well little one, is this the latest victim your charming self has brought down?" Jet Glen's tall figure stands before her, and Jet's brown eyes are full of lazy laughter, as he stands and watches Zoe straighten her slim figure in virtuous indignation.
"You are like a toad, Mr. Glen, always cropping up when least expected," she says, with what is intended to be withering sarcasm.
"Allow me to offer a thousand thanks for your kind sentiments on my appearance, Miss Litchfield." The young man doffs his white straw hat gallantly.
"No need for thanks; it is the simple, unvarnished truth; it is nothing to me if you get offended." The little foot, clad in its dainty wigwam slipper, taps the door step impatiently.
"Never mind, dear, don't get angry; you and I should understand each other by now. You are such a little wildfire, I like to see you get excited. But come, tell me what the old gentleman said."
Zoe's anger is never very long lived; now, under Jet's conciliatory tones, it vanishes and fades like the mist in the morn.
"Of course I'll tell you, you old goose," Zoe exclaims, coming down toward him.