“I don’t disparage art,” continued Cyrus loftily, and I thought that sounded well whatever it might mean. “But I am looking at the practical side of things and I can’t help seeing that the aliens have got to be taken care of. We are, as you say, where we can provide for ourselves. I could work my way through college.” Cyrus was very tall as he said this. “But I must devote myself to the business. If that fails I must try something else to provide for them. You know what I promised grandfather about him.”
It was the boy who rankled. Cyrus had never liked him. Girls were, at best, an inscrutable evil; one learned to put up with them.
“But they don’t cost much now,” I said eagerly, “and the farm pays.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Only fairly well. Leander Green manages it as well as it can be done, with Loveday’s help.”
“And mine,” I added eagerly.
Cyrus’ small, near-sighted eyes widened, and there was, I fancied, a flicker of a smile under his moustache; but the moustache was not as yet large enough to hide much of anything, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially as he immediately said quite heartily:
“I know you do help, Bathsheba, and I am glad to see that you understand the work that properly belongs to a woman.”
He might have been grandpa or dear old Parson Grover, only that neither of them had so much dignity. He reminded me of the answer that grandpa made him, once, when he asked if he (grandpa) was as old as he when a certain event happened.
“My dear Cyrus, I never was as old as you!” said grandpa.
“But there is no use in talking. You see how it is!” Cyrus went on with a touch of impatience. “My duty lies here. I shall be a shipbuilder, of more or less success—I am afraid it will be less.”