"Was he expecting you?" inquired Alix.
"Not at all. It seems that your roly-poly friend forgot to notify
him. I say, Alix, what a wonderful lot of pre-historic junk there
is in that old stable-yard. Webster took me around there and showed
me the stuff. Tell me something about the place."
Late in the afternoon Blythe,--after submitting to an interview at
the hands of A. Lincoln Pollock,--sat alone before the fire, his
long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe
dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for
a long, long time halfway to his lips. He was staring abstractedly
into the neglected fire.
His sister came in. He was not aware of her entrance until she
appeared directly in front of him.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, blinking.
"What is on your mind, Addy?"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"Where is Alix?"
"Writing letters. There were two or three she has to get off before
we start for town." She sat down on the arm of his chair. "You may
as well tell me what you really think of him, Addison. Isn't he
good enough for her?"
He lowered his voice. The frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes.
"I can't make him out, Mary," he said, lowering his voice.
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Well, I may be doing him the rottenest injustice, but--somehow--he
doesn't ring quite true to me.
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