Nan suspected that Eaton had come by arrangement and that in all likelihood he meant to stay for dinner; but already the lawyer was saying, as he saw Farley taking out his watch:—
“I’m going to beg a lift into town from you plutocrats. I thought I could stay me with flagons of buttermilk and catch the interurban that gallops by at five fifty; but I made a miscalculation and have already missed the car.”
“I can send you in,” said Mrs. Copeland, “if it isn’t perfectly convenient for Mr. Farley.”
“Of course Eaton will go with us,” said Farley cordially. “It’s time to move, Nan.”
While Eaton helped him down the steps, Mrs. Copeland detained Nan for glimpses of the landscape from various points on the veranda.
“It was nice of you to stop; I think we ought to know each other better,” said Fanny.
“Thank you!” said Nan, surprised and pleased. “It won’t be my fault if we don’t!”
As they crossed the veranda their hands touched idly, and Mrs. Copeland caught Nan’s fingers and held them till they reached the steps. This trifling girlish act exercised a curious, bewildering effect upon Nan. She might have argued from it that Mrs. Copeland didn’t know—didn’t know that she was touching the hand of the woman who was accused of stealing her husband’s affections.
“I don’t see many people,” Mrs. Copeland was saying; “and sometimes I get lonesome. You must bring your father out again, very soon. He can ride to the barn in his machine and see my whole plant.”
“He would like that; he’s one of your warmest admirers, you know.”