Mammy finished her work and seeing Marian sitting staring in absorbed attention at an open book, concluded not to interrupt her reading, and hobbled from the room. In the kitchen she paused to ruminate before putting on her spotlessly clean white apron, her “Sunday best.”
“’Pears like Miss Marian aint herself no mo’,” she muttered, sorrowfully. “Why dat man got ter com’ back an’ torment her mo’? I s’pose de good Lord knows His business, but thar’s times when us mortals could give Him p’ints. Laws! who dat?” The sudden clang of the front door gong startling her into dropping her apron. Mammy’s heart sank, when on opening the door a moment later, she gazed up into Dan Maynard’s handsome face; and it was only with much self-restraint that she managed to answer with any civility his inquiry for her beloved “Miss Marian.”
Marian made no motion to rise as he entered and her frigid bow was far from cordial. An awkward pause followed.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, finally, and Maynard with suppressed indignation quietly took the chair next to hers; in doing so he dislodged the worsted which she had carefully stretched across the chair back.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed contritely. “I never noticed the worsted; very stupid of me.”
“Don’t bother, please.” Marian turned about and rested one hand on her desk. “Have you brought back my blotter?”
Maynard sat upright, the neglected worsted at his feet.
“Your blotter?” he echoed. “What blotter is that?”
“The one you took from here Friday night.”
Maynard stared at her. “I am an absent-minded beggar,” he said, and his smile was whimsical. “If I accidentally walked off with your blotter that night I apologize and will bring you another one to-morrow.”