“Yes, wait,” said Jim disgustedly. “Sit here and wait for some one to come along and insist on being taken in. A lot of rooms we will rent that way!”
“Well, those boys upstairs did that, didn’t they? They came along and rented the room, Jim; nobody worried them into it, did they?”
“Well, you sit here and wait,” growled her brother. “I’m going down town.” He picked up his books and turned toward the door. “I’ll see what Lady wants.” He was back in a few moments, stuffing a slip of paper, Mrs. Hazard’s list, into his pocket. “Want to go along, Hope?”
But Hope shook her head. “I must finish these, Jim. I’ve got five more to do.”
“Oh, all right.” He pulled his hat down over his eyes and started off. Hope looked after him, sighed and shook her head.
“Jim’s getting growlier and growlier every day,” she murmured. “I suppose I ought to worry too; maybe he’d like it better if I did. The trouble is I don’t seem to be able to. Every time I get started to be unhappy I think of something nice and forget! I’m afraid”—she fixed her gaze thoughtfully on the little round bed of scarlet sage, which was all the garden the cottage could boast—“I’m afraid I’m dreadfully fripish. Maybe I have a—a shallow nature.” Then she smiled, and, “Oh, dear,” she sighed ruefully, “I can’t worry even about that!
“Just the same,” she continued in thought as she sent her needle in and out, “I really don’t see the use of worrying all the time. It seems to me that if things go wrong you just ought to keep cheerful, and the wronger they go the cheerfuller you ought to keep. You never know when something nice is going to happen in this wonderful world. Why, I might be sitting here just like this and somebody might come along and say, ‘Young lady, have you any rooms to rent?’ And I’d say—”
“I—I beg your pardon.”
Hope looked up with a start. At the end of the short walk, holding the gate half open, stood a tall gentleman in rather ill-fitting pepper-and-salt clothes. On his head, set at a rakish angle, was a straw hat with a narrow up-rolled brim. It was very yellow as to straw and very rusty as to ribbon. And it didn’t suit his lean, thoughtful face the least bit. He wore spectacles and from behind the lenses a pair of faded blue eyes peered near-sightedly. He carried a small book in his right hand, one finger inserted between the pages to hold his place. Hope wondered if he could be another book agent and dropped her work and went to the steps.
“I regret disturbing you, young lady,” said the gentleman, “but will you kindly tell me whether this is—er—” He stopped perplexedly. Then, “Dear, dear,” he said half to himself, “what was the name now?”