“Aren’t you interested in Hurrell Oaks?” I persisted.
“I’m interested in everything Marian Haviland likes,” he declared, boldly, focusing his eyes full upon mine. “But—but the apartment’s small, and—and I reckon there wasn’t room.”
Room? Was any place too small for him? It made my blood—even at that age—boil.
“She’s had enough to do to keep half a dozen busy,” I said, tactlessly.
“Has she?” he echoed in hope. “How—how’s she got on?”
“She’s been wonderful,” I said, feeling kindlier toward her as I spoke. “She’s made that apartment regal.”
“I’m glad, I’m glad! I knew she had it in her. Did the new sofa come?”
“Yes. Everything’s come. And you’d better come yourself at five o’clock. I know she’s just forgotten—perhaps your invitation got lost like Mrs. Purcell’s. She only got hers an hour ago, I heard.”
“Really, now! Well, I’ll just go home and see. I need a little nap, I guess. I haven’t been sleeping very well. Good-by.”
And he held out his hand, and nodded to me several times, and gave me a sad, cheery, uncertain smile.