But Madelaine’s interest was not to be compared with old “Am’s” stunned surprise when he raised his owlish eyes and saw “the brat from the Orphanage” confronting him from the opposite doorway. Subconsciously Amos had failed to conceive of that brat as anything but a brat. Certainly not a woman grown to maturity. Up to the moment of admittance he had looked vaguely forward to interviewing a knock-kneed child in pigtails and a gingham apron. He had once visited an orphanage while on a legislative committee. He had come away impressed that the crying need of the institution at the moment was to have its individual and collective nose wiped.
Instead of such a mite of parentless humanity whom he might pat on the head and suggest peanuts to, the man confronted a tall, perfectly poised, athletic young woman whose calm eyes made him wonder if he had rumpled himself anywhere in that hectic two-hour trip on the Boston and Albany.
For an instant Amos felt petulant. Persons unknown had tricked him. For Madge Theddon was grown into a “goddess.” The metaphor is Amos’s. And she “had a way with her.” Yes, she had very much of a way with her. One of her fellow students had described her: “Calm as a mountain thinking aloud; ineligible for analysis as moonlight playing on a nocturnal waterfall.”
“I am Madelaine, yes!” she announced in response to “Am’s” suggestion that there was a mistake somewhere. “You are my mother’s brother-in-law. I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ruggles.” She moved forward, extending a lithe, cool, capable hand.
Amos took the hand and kissed it, or he believed he kissed it, at the same time annoyed that she had called him her mother’s brother-in-law instead of her own uncle.
“Madam, charmed!” And Amos made another bow. But he was not charmed. He was bumped. He was badly bumped! There was not a doubt about it.
With an amused smile, Madelaine’s maid withdrew. Amos produced a billowy silk handkerchief and began patting various exposed portions of his anatomy. He ran out of exposed portions and then accepted the chair Madelaine indicated, still in his imbecilic daze.
“Y-Y-You may think it strange that I have called, Miss Madel—Miss Madel—Miss Theddon—it is about my son. You two have become quite well acquainted in the past, I understand.”
“Quite,” returned the girl. Her tone was a trifle ironic.
Amos was at a loss.