As for the Baron, his long suit was listenin'. He was a bear for it. He'd sit there, big and ornamental, with his light blue eyes glued on Veronica, takin' it all in as fast as she could feed it to him, and lookin' almost intelligent. Course, when he did try a comeback in English he chopped his words up comic; but he could speak four other languages, and Veronica seemed pleased enough to find someone she could practice her French and German on.
For awhile there I'd have picked either of the two as a winner; only I couldn't just make up my mind which would get the decision. But somehow the affair don't seem to progress the way it should. Each one appeared to get about so far, and then stick. They both seemed anxious enough too; but just as one would take an extra spurt Veronica would somehow cool him down. She didn't seem to be playin' one against the other, either. Looked like careless work to me. Sadie gets almost peeved with her.
Then one night at our house a lot of the mystery was cleared up by some friendly joshin' across the dinner table. We had all the Adamses there that evenin',—Pa Adams, a tall, dignified, white-whiskered old sport, who looked like he might have been quite a gay boy in his day; Mother, a cheery, twinklin'-eyed, rather chubby old girl; and Veronica, all in white satin and dazzlin' to look at. Also Sadie had asked in Miss Prescott, an old maid neighbor of ours, who's so rich it hurts, but who's as plain and simple as they come. She's a fruit preservin' specialist, and every fall her and Sadie gets real chummy over swappin' cannin' receipts.
About five P.M., though, Miss Prescott 'phones over her regrets, sayin' how her nephew had arrived unexpected; so of course she gets the word to bring Dudley Byron along with her. Emerson, his last name is, and while I hadn't seen much of him lately we'd been more or less friendly when he was takin' special post-graduate work at some agricultural college and was around home durin' vacations. An odd, quiet chap, Dudley Byron, who never figured much anywhere,—one of the kind you can fill in with reckless and depend on not to make a break or get in the way. He's a slim, sharp-faced young gent, with pale hair plastered down tight, and deep-set gray eyes that sort of wander around aimless.
It might have been kind of dull if it hadn't been for the Adamses; but Veronica and her Pa are lively enough to wake up any crowd. They're gen'rally jollyin' each other about something. This time what started it was someone remarkin' about a weddin' that was to be pulled off soon, and how the bride was to be the last of five daughters.
"Fortunate parent!" says Pa Adams. "Five! And here I've been unable to get rid of one."
"You didn't begin early enough," comes back Veronica. "Do you know, Mrs. McCabe, when I was nineteen Daddy used to be so afraid I would be stolen away from him that he would almost lie in wait for young men with a shotgun. After I passed twenty-four he began meeting them at the gate with a box of cigars in one hand and a shaker full of cocktails in the other."
Pa Adams joins in the laugh. "It's quite true," says he. "For the last two or three years Mother and I have been doing our best to marry her off. We gave up the United States as hopeless, and carted her all over Europe. No use. Even younger sons wouldn't have her. Now we're back again, trying the dodge of staying longer in one place. But I fail to see any encouraging signs."
"I'm sure I've tried to do my part too," says Veronica, smilin' gay. "I really shouldn't mind being married. My tastes are wholly domestic. But, dear me, one must find somewhere near the right sort of man, you know! And so far——" She ends with a shrug of her white shoulders and a puckerin' of her rosy lips.
"Poor Baron!" sighs Sadie, teasin'.