“Yes.”
“Well, the one thing is to get her home. Tell her that if she calls you up.” Frederick looked suddenly tired and old.
Baldy, leaning against the mantel, gazed down at him. “It’s hard to decide what I ought to do. But I feel that I’m right in giving her a chance first to answer the advertisement.”
Towne’s tone showed a touch of irritation. “Of course you’ll have to act as you think best.”
And now Jane took things in her own hands. “Mr. Towne, I’m going to make you a cup of coffee.”
“I shall be very grateful,” he smiled at her. What a charming child she was! He was soothed and refreshed by the atmosphere they created. This boy and girl were a friendly pair and he loved his ease. His own house, since Edith’s departure, had been funereal, and his friends had been divided in their championship between himself and Edith. But the young Barneses were so pleasantly responsive with their lighted-up eyes and their little air of making him one with them. Edith had always seemed to put him quite definitely on the shelf. With little Jane and her brother he had a feeling of equality of age.
“Look here,” he spoke impulsively, “may I tell you all about it? It would relieve my mind immensely.”
To Jane it was a thrilling moment. Having poured the coffee, she came out from behind her battlement of silver and sat in her chintz chair. She did not knit; she was enchanted by the tale that Towne was telling. She sat very still, her hands folded, the tropical birds about her. To Frederick she seemed like a bird herself—slim and lovely, and with a voice that sang!
Towne was not an impressionable man. His years of bachelorhood had hardened him to feminine arts. But here was no artfulness. Jane assumed nothing. She was herself. As he talked to her, he became aware of some stirred emotion. An almost youthful eagerness to shine as the hero of his tale. If he embroidered the theme, it was for her benefit. What he told was as he saw it. But what he told was not the truth, nor even half of it.