For Charlie, in his sophomore year, ran to motor cars. Indulgence of a fine fancy for motors is apt to be expensive, as Patty was finding out, but it is not as expensive as Charlie's one other diversion is apt to be, on occasion. That his one experience of it, in his first term, was not more expensive must be set down solely to luck.
Automobiles were bad enough, as a diversion, for a boy who could afford them no better than Charlie Ladue. Patty learned of them with horror. She had hoped, fondly, that Charlie had given them up after his experience with them only last Easter; oh, she hoped he had. She said it with tears in her eyes and with an agonized expression that would have melted a heart less hard than Charlie's. But Charlie merely smiled. That phantom car had done him no harm, although he did not call it a phantom car to Patty. Motor cars were not for the Hazens; not for people of the older régime. And Charlie smiled again and remarked that they might not have come to motors yet, but they would. Patty said, with some spirit, that they were vulgar and that they—they had a bad smell. For her part, she was satisfied to go no faster than nature intended. The horse, as Charlie might be aware, was the fastest animal that goes.
Having delivered this shot with evident pride, Patty sat back in her chair and waited to see if Charlie would be able to make any reply. She considered that last argument unanswerable. Charlie apparently did not. He observed that Pat's horse, rising thirty and rather fat, could hardly be called the fastest animal that goes. He never was very fast. But he contented himself with that, for Patty had just turned over to him all the ready money that she could raise and was feeling really impoverished in consequence. So Charlie, having got what he came for, took his leave, bidding Pat not to be anxious on his account, for he wasn't going to get smashed up again—he almost forgot to put in the "again"—and he wasn't going to spend much money on machines in the future. They always cost more at first, before you got used to them. With this comforting assurance, at which poor Patty sighed and said that she hoped he was right, Charlie went out cheerfully to sit behind one of the fastest animals that go, and to take the rig, for which Sally would have to pay, back to the livery stable.
Nothing in particular happened that winter, except that Dick and Henrietta moved into Miss Patty's house early in February. Patty was getting to be considered—and to consider herself—one of Doctor Sanderson's patients. And the Retreat was filling up and she did not want to give up her comfortable room, with the probable chance that she would be unable to get it again when she came back. In fact, it looked as if anybody had better hold on to what she had at Doctor Sanderson's.
So Sally saw but little of Fox that winter. They were both very busy, and Sally had her hands and her head full, with the office and her school, too. But she liked the office in spite of the work which, between you and me, was not very hard. There was a good deal of it, but it was interesting and Sally went home at night, tired and happy and with her head full of schemes. Sometimes Everett was waiting for her. She did not know whether she liked that or not, but there did not seem to be reason enough for sending him away. She did not quite know what her relations were with Everett; friendly, she hoped, no more. For there was a difference between Sally's state of mind now and her state of mind the year before. She was not indifferent now, she was happy and things mattered in a wholesome way. But Sally knew that Fox had not opened the cream-colored house again; not since Henrietta's wedding. He had not even made any preparations to open it. Sally was watching that house, out of the corner of her eye, and she knew. What an old slow poke he was, wasn't he? The winter was gone before she knew it and it was almost Easter. Then, one afternoon, Charlie made his appearance, suddenly and unexpectedly, and went up to see Henrietta almost immediately.
Sally was vaguely worried by this sudden appearance of Charlie, she could not tell why. She had felt, all along, a great relief that he had taken so readily to the Henrietta treatment and she had felt some surprise at it. Having worried about it for an hour, she put it aside. It would be time enough to worry when she knew there was something to worry about. When that time did come, she would not have time to worry, for she would probably be too busy doing something about it. It was inaction that worried Sally, which is the case with most of us. At any rate, Charlie was all right for the present. He had only gone up to Henrietta's. Then Harry Carling came in: "J—j—just c—c—came d—d—down t—to s—s—see H—H—Ho—orry, y—y—you kn—n—now, S—S—Sally, f—f—for a m—m—min—n—nute." And Sally smiled and shook hands with Harry and hastened to say—to save Horry the painful experience of mentioning the matter—that he could go whenever he wanted to, so far as she knew. And they went out together.