Seated in one of the high-backed arm-chairs, with one white hand shading her laughing eyes from the light, and with her evening dress daintily spread out about her, Margaret was amused at the look of desperation on the old gentleman’s ruddy face. He squared his round body before the fire, braced himself with his plump legs well apart, as if he were preparing to sustain the shock of a blow, and taking a deep inspiration, gave a loud and prolonged “Whew!”
This was too much for her.
Margaret rose, and, going up to him, took his arm and looked into his face cajolingly.
“Uncle, I was bound to have Rose, and Miss Jemima would not have let her come alone.”
The tone was the low, almost plaintive key, the effectiveness of which Margaret knew so well.
“‘Not let her!’” The Major faced her quickly. “Margaret, she is one of those strong-minded women!”
Margaret nodded brightly.
“I bet my horse she wears iron-gray curls, caught on the side of her head with tucking combs!”
“She does,” declared Margaret, her eyes dancing.
“And has a long nose—red at the end.”