“I thought I'd have a cup of tea with you, Bet—what else have you that's good?” he inquired genially, as he dropped into a chair.
“That was nice of you; we don't see very much of each other, do we, Tom?” said Betty pleasantly.
Mr. Ware twisted his features, on which middle age had rested an untender hand, into a smile.
“When a man undertakes to manage a place like Belle Plain his work's laid out for him, Betty, and an old fellow like me is pretty apt to go one of two ways; either he takes to hard living to keep himself in trim, or he pampers himself soft.”
“But you aren't old, Tom!”
“I wish I were sure of seeing forty-five or even forty-eight again—but I'm not,” said Tom.
“But that isn't really old,” objected Betty.
“Well, that's old enough, Bet, as you'll discover for yourself one of these days.”
“Mercy, Tom!” cried Betty.
Mr. Ware consumed a cup of tea in silence.