"I rather thought we'd understand each other," she said in her even, mellow tones. "You know, we had your photograph out East—a very good one, it seems—so I had an idea of what you looked like."
"The photograph gave you an unfair advantage! And I didn't know Uncle Bash carried one away with him."
"He was very fond of you," she said gravely. "He was very proud that you had gone into the war."
"I am glad to hear that; I thought he disapproved of me for refusing to go into business. He offered me a substantial interest before he sold out."
"I know that; but I think he liked you rather better for refusing it. Business with him was merely a means to an end. And it was doubly sad that he should die just when he was free to enjoy the beautiful things he loved."
It was at the tip of my tongue to say that the loss of her companionship was even more grievous; but nothing in her manner invited such a comment. Her grave moods were to be respected, and she talked for some time of Uncle Bash's life in the East, of his short illness and quite unexpected death.
"But I'm keeping you," she exclaimed suddenly, jumping down from the wall. "And I must finish my unpacking."
As we walked to the house I answered her questions about the neighborhood, and promised to telephone Torrence immediately of her arrival.
"You will have luncheon with us—or maybe dinner would be better—or both? Antoine told me of your bachelor establishment, but eating alone is bad for the digestion. I shall think you resent my coming if you don't dine at the house every day. Mrs. Farnsworth—my friend and companion—is a very interesting woman. I am sure you will like her."
The information that she was protected in her youthful widowhood by a companion was imparted neatly.