“Oh,” said Lily,—she had been taught to call “it” curiosity; but then mamma’s vocabulary was not like other peoples’.
“I have a tremendous amount of civic interest,” said Jane, complacently, “I ought to be able to do this town a lot of good.”
And with a jaunty wave of her hand, she took her leave. As she turned out of Sheridan Lane, she once more heard the light, pure tones of Lily’s voice, but now they sounded a little gayer, a little warmer and sweeter than they had before, and what was more, instead of the monotonous scales, Lily was singing a pert song, which mamma, had she heard it, would probably not have thought elegant at all.
[CHAPTER III—CIVIC INTEREST]
Young Mr. Sheridan might perhaps have grudgingly admitted that the morning was beautiful. It would have been hard even for a young man who had definitely made up his mind to be no longer pleased with anything, to deny that there was something almost pleasant in a day as soft and quiet as that June itself could bring, in a garden all enmeshed in net of stirring shadows, and in a free outlook toward hills that glowed with autumn colors.
The old “home place” wasn’t so bad; rather overgrown with weeds and vines and somewhat dilapidated; the roof leaked on the third floor front, and the wooden steps at the back had broken down completely; but this crumbling and tumbling state harmonized with the state of young Mr. Sheridan’s mind. He accepted it with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. This general poetic decay seemed to him quite touchingly suitable to the mood which he fully believed was to color the declining years of his short and blasted life. Mr. Sheridan had convinced himself that he had received a crushing blow; a blow that no self-respecting gentleman ought to survive for very long. He had convinced himself that he neither could nor should be happy again. He had quite made up his mind that the world was a dreary waste, and all human beings, rascals and base deceivers, whose society a wise man would shun. This unfriendly humor was directed to mankind in general and to the feminine element in particular.
He had awakened that morning—his first in the old mansion—in a gigantic mahogany bed. Peterson, his servant, was kindling a fire to drive the lingering dampness out of the long unused room.
“Good morning, Mr. Tim, sir,” said Peterson with objectionable cheerfulness, “I hope sir, ye had a good night?”
Mr. Sheridan eyed the old man with melancholy suspicion. He was loath to class Peterson in with the rest of the miserable human race; nevertheless, it was wiser to trust no one absolutely—not even Peterson.
“Oh, well, I suppose I slept as well as I could expect, Peterson. An owl or something woke me up at about one o’clock, and I couldn’t get to sleep for hours. But still—”