“There is no reason for that. Mrs. Deacon and her daughter are near neighbors of mine, and I—I’d be delighted to take them home.” And without giving his host a chance to argue the point, strode off hastily in the direction of the majestic dowager.
By this time the old lady, undergoing the process of being wrapped up in a dense cocoon of furs and mantles, while the two Webster boys clamored for the pleasure of putting on her carriage boots, was quite besieged by young men begging to be allowed to drive her home. Lily stood behind her chair, smiling, but a little tired-looking.
Mr. Sheridan worked his way deftly and determinedly through the group.
“Will you let me drive you home, Mrs. Deacon?” He did not look at Lily, and Lily dropped her eyes.
“I am taking Miss—Mrs. Deacon home,” said Sam Webster firmly, unconsciously grasping that dignified lady’s plump foot more tightly, as if he intended to hold her by it, should she attempt to evade him.
Now Mr. Sheridan did look, at Lily. Would she or would she not prefer to go with him?
“Why, if Mr. Sheridan has—has room for us, we needn’t trouble Sam, mamma,” said Lily, demurely. “That is—”
“It’s no trouble,” interrupted Sam,—which was quite true—“and I’ve got the sleigh already hitched up”—which was not true. He sent an almost belligerent glance at Mr. Sheridan, who ignored it.
Mr. Sheridan felt extraordinarily jubilant. Nothing should prevent his taking Lily home—not if he had to slaughter this mob of impertinent young men in cold blood.
Then Mrs. Deacon, extricating her foot from Sam’s convulsive grip, rose up. There was a warm light in her eye, the peculiar, benevolent beam which enlivens the glance of the far-sighted mamma as it rests upon an eligible young man.