“Two years last August, which is not so very long!”
“Long enough to be forgotten, though.”
“I am not in the habit of forgetting pleasant things. You were a being to worship that night.”
“Your worship was pretty short; you took that Philadelphia widow driving the next day.”
“But we didn’t have a picnic and get lost.”
“Decidedly not, as she was from Philadelphia!” And they laughed softly, in the subdued key of their talk.
A little later Colonel Craighill was heard at the library door bidding the stenographer good night. Mrs. Craighill rose, clutching her plate and glass.
“Service was for one only,” she whispered, and on this hint Wayne restored her chair to its place against the wall, and with a little nod, a shrug of her shoulders, a pretty lifting of the brows, she vanished through the pantry door and took flight upward by way of the back stairs. Wayne heard the click of the buttons in the hall as his father turned off the lights, and a moment later Colonel Craighill appeared at the door with a handful of papers.
“You up, Wayne? I thought a burglar was entertaining himself. I really believe I’m hungry, too. I’ve delayed writing a statement I was asked to prepare of the educational conditions of the South, and there was a lot of statistical matter to go over. I think I have it the way I want it though.”
He stretched himself at ease in a chair, while Wayne brought a plate and cut him a slice of the fowl.