“I’m sorry, Cousin Olive, but he doesn’t look pathetic to me. I don’t want to seem to be meddling, but that young man irritates me beyond any words.”
“You’ll never get it rolled out thin if you don’t keep right on,” said Olive.
Zelda laughed and bore down heavily on the dough.
“Please forgive me—please, Cousin Olive; but Mr. Balcomb makes me think of pie crust some way—or pie crust makes me think of him. I rarely eat pie, so I’m not overworked thinking of him. He’s so thin and crisp. You could roll him out and make a nice apple tart of him. Why, Olive Merriam!”
Tears had sprung suddenly to Olive’s eyes, and Zelda dropped the rolling-pin and ran to her.
“You poor dear, I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. Tell me you forgive me!”
“I’m silly, and I know you’ll think things—go on now with that crust—there are the pans all ready—but Mr. Balcomb has been very kind to me. He has taken me to the theater sometimes, and sent me things. So I think you’re not fair to him.”
“Well,” said Zelda, “if he’s nice to you there isn’t anything else to be said—not a word. Do you drop it over the pan like that,—no, let me have the knife and I’ll cut it. So!”—and she set down the pan and viewed its lining of crust with satisfaction.
“He came,” said Olive, with dignity, “to say how sorry he was to have to run off last night, but that he was called away on an urgent business matter and had to go down to his office to meet some people who had come from out of town unexpectedly. And I told him it was all right and please to go away, as I was busy.”
“He certainly says some funny things,” Zelda went on, palliatingly, “and he was fine in the show. His antics were as good as any professional’s.”