Grandmother was coming forward now, to speak to him, where he stood,
straight and dignified and handsome, with the little girl still on
one arm.
"You are my old friend Grace Carpenter's son, as I was just telling
Mr. Havenith. Edith Carpenter's nephew.... I--I am glad you are a
friend's son," Grandmother finished tremulously.
John set Angela down and took Grandmother's hand, saying something
to her gently--Joy never knew what. She had stood enough.
Phyllis felt Joy's hand pull out of hers. The inn-cottages were all
built alike, so Joy knew perfectly well how to bolt through the
front door, through the living-room to the back door and away.
Viola, mending a little sock, caught a glimpse of flying skirts and
flying braids.
"Them red-haired folks certainly is tempestuous, but they's
gitters," she remarked to herself philosophically, and went on with
her mending.
Outside, Phyllis looked at Allan and Allan looked at Phyllis. There
didn't seem much to say about it. At last Allan spoke, in a way that
he and Phyllis agreed afterwards was painfully inadequate, but was
all he could think of to say.
"Ah--would you like to put away your suitcase, old man?" he
inquired. "You must be tired of--of seeing it there."
Phyllis gurgled under her breath, but every one else was deadly
serious. Nobody seemed to see anything funny about the offer.
"Thank you very much," John responded solemnly. "Yes, thank you,
Harrington, I believe I would.
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