As I drove into the entrance.
His manner was not cordial, and he wore the haggard look of a man on bad terms with his pillow. I attributed his appearance to preoccupation with his love-affair. When we had withdrawn a little way from the inn he turned on me sharply.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Well," I laughed.
"Oh, you needn't take that tone about it! Your being here is something that requires explanation; and your being there"—he flung out his arm toward Hopefield Manor—"your presence there is not a laughing matter."
"My dear Wiggins, I came here in a spirit of friendship, and you treat me like a pickpocket. I must say that if you had not acted like a clam the other night at the club, but had told me what was in the wind, we might not be meeting now like ancient enemies instead of old and intimate friends."
He vouchsafed no reply, but threw himself down under a scarlet maple and began to whittle a stick, while I went on with my story.
"I met Miss Octavia Hollister in the Asolando the day after our last dinner at the club. I had dropped into the tea-room merely to look at the place again. I had never seen her before in all my life. She is a whimsical old lady—but a lady, you must admit that—and we exchanged cards. On learning my occupation she at once declared that I must come up here to look at her chimneys. She made an appointment by mail for yesterday afternoon. It is not my fault that she treated me like a guest, or that she introduced me of necessity to her niece Cecilia. And now I have finished my work, and after I have made my report I shall probably not meet her again. As for Miss Cecilia Hollister, I can only say, my dear Wiggins, that she is a rarely beautiful woman, and that if you wish to marry her you have my very best wishes for your success and happiness."
"It struck me that you were pretty well established there," he blurted. "I confess that I took it for granted you were not there wholly on a professional errand; and I won't deny, Ames, that I was not pleased to see you."
"You honor me in assuming that I might aspire to the hand of so splendid a woman as Cecilia Hollister; but, my dear Wiggins, I tell you I never laid eyes on her until last night."