So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss Van Arsdale’s music, or read, or took little walks between showers. No further mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of the visit. She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, though her perfect and effortless courtesy preserved her from being antipathetic to any one beneath her own roof. How much her silence as to the unusual situation was inspired by consideration for her guest, how much due to natural reserve, Io could not estimate.
A little less reticence would have been grateful to her as the hours spun out and she felt her own spirit expand slowly in the calm. It was she who introduced the subject of Banneker.
“Our quaint young station-agent seems to have abandoned his responsibilities so far as I’m concerned,” she observed.
“Because he hasn’t come to see you?”
“Yes. He said he would.”
“I told him not to.”
“I see,” said Io, after thinking it over. “Is he a little—just a wee, little bit queer in his head?”
“He’s one of the sanest persons I’ve ever known. And I want him to stay so.”
“I see again,” stated the girl.
“So you thought him a bit unbalanced? That is amusing.” That the hostess meant the adjective in good faith was proved by her quiet laughter.