"I mean it," said Daisy, simply; "not in here, anyway. Why can't we go out, and get a breath of fresh air, too, and go to a picture-show?"
Nick Cluett took his arm from her waist, reached for his hat, and opened the hall-door.
"Come on," he said, "I'll see you safe home, Kid."
CHAPTER XI. The Face Behind the Mask.
"Who's the boy?" said Daisy, over her shoulder, to Jean; as, glancing out of the window of the big Harrison kitchen, she saw, at the front corner of the house, a younger man get out of the car after the bulky Sir Thomas. "I thought all the visitors here were elderly men. There's been no young ones at all since I've been here."
"Ey?" Jean came to "keek," resting a hand on the shoulder of the younger girl, "why, if it's no young Harrison! Did I never tell ye Sir Thomas had a lad? Well, well." Jean sat down again to her pea-shelling.
"Ay," she pursued, as her rapid fingers stripped the split pods of their green kernels, "yon's Harold Harrison. He looks like his father, an' he talks like his father, and as to his disposeetion—well, I'm bound in fairness-like to say he's a bittie of his good mither—just a wee wee streak, like the lean in bacon—pinched in between thick layers of Sir Thomas himsel'. The young-lad's no so rough-edged in manner—the college has polished him on the ootside.... But I'll say no more: ye'll see him juist now, when ye serve the supper."