"Oh, how do you do," she cried, a moment later, her face lighted with a radiant smile as she extended her hand and allowed it to rest in that of Jean Baptiste's.
"Miss McCarthy," he cried, with her hand in one of his, and his hat in the other, he entered the door.
"May I take your hat?" asked Orlean, and taking it, placed it on the hall tree. In the meantime, his habitually observing eyes were upon her, and when she turned she found him regarding her closely.
"Come right into the parlor, please, Mr. Baptiste, and be seated." She hesitated between the davenport and the chairs; while he, without ado, chose the davenport and became seated, and the look he turned upon her commanded more than words that she, too, be seated. With a little hesitation, she finally sank on the davenport at a conventional distance, beside him.
"I was not certain, judging by your last letter, just when you would get here," she began timidly. He regarded her out of his searching eyes attentively. He was weighing her in the balance. He saw in those close glances what kind of a girl she was, apparently, for, after a respite, he relaxed audibly, but kept his eyes on her nevertheless.
"I was not certain myself," he said. "I am so rushed these days that I do not know always just what comes next. But I am glad that I am here at last—and to see you looking so well."
They exchanged the usual words about the weather, and other conventional notes, and then she called her mother.
"Mama, I wish you to meet Mr. Baptiste. Mr. Baptiste, this is my mother."
"Mr. Baptiste," said her mother, giving him her hand, "I am glad to know you."
"The same here, madam," he returned cheerfully. "Guess your health is good!"