Why not offer to teach her English? came the question to me;—and I decided I would some day, but not just then. I would wait until I knew her a little better; I would wait until I had become better acquainted with her people; until the edge of my quarrel with Joe had worn off.
As we grounded on the shore, in front of Rita's home, old Andrew Clark,—short and sturdy in appearance and dour as any Scot could ever be,—was on the beach. He came down to meet us and invited me up for a cup of tea.
I accepted the invitation, as I had a business project to discuss with the old man, something that should prove a benefit to the store and a financial benefit to him.
He led me into the kitchen, where his wife,—a quiet, white-haired old lady with a loving face and great sad eyes,—was sitting in an armchair darning.
She looked up as we entered.
Andrew Clark did not seek to introduce me, which I thought unmannerly. I turned round for Rita, but Rita had not followed us in; so I went forward and held out my hand. The dear old woman took it and smiled as if to say, "How sensible of you."
"Sit down and make yourself at home," she said kindly.
She spoke with the accent of an Eastern Canadian, although it was evident she had spent many years in the West.
Andrew Clark still held to his mother tongue,—Lowland Scots. But his speech was also punctuated with Western slang and dialect.
Every article of furniture in that kitchen was home-made:—chairs, table, picture frames, washstands,—everything, and good solid furniture it was too.