“Well, he’s rather an old dear,” said Jane, and having thus disposed airily of the great Frederick Towne, she went about the house setting things to right for the night.
“Merrymaid’s out,” she told her brother; “you’d better get her.”
He opened the door and the storm seemed to whirl in upon him. He called the old cat and was presently aware, as he stood on the porch, that she danced about him in the dark. He chased her blindly, and at last got his hands on her. She was wet to the thighs, where she had waded in the drifts, but galvanized like a small electric motor by the intense chill of the night.
The wind shrieked and seemed to shake the world. Before Baldy entered the house he turned and faced the night—“Edith” was his voiceless cry, “Edith—Edith——”
By morning the violence of the storm had spent itself. But it was still bitterly cold. The snow was blue beneath the leaden sky. The chickens, denied their accustomed promenade, ate and drank and went to sleep again in the strange dusk. Merrymaid and the kitten having poked their noses into the frigid atmosphere withdrew to the snug haven of a basket beneath the kitchen stove. Sophy sent word that her rheumatism was worse, and that she could not come over. Jane, surveying the accumulated piles of dishes, felt a sense of unusual depression. While Frederick Towne had talked last night she had caught a glimpse of his world—the great house—six servants—gay girls in the glamour of good clothes, young men who matched the girls, money to meet every emergency—a world in which nobody had to wash dishes—or make soup out of Sunday’s roast.
She was cheered a bit, however, by the announcement that her brother had decided to stay home from the office.
“I’ll have a try at that magazine cover——”
Her spirits rose. “Wouldn’t it be utterly perfect if you got the prize——?”
“Not much chance. The thing I need is a good model——”
“And I won’t do?” with some wistfulness.