Lucy had sprung up quickly.  She was very white.  Horace said good-afternoon perfunctorily, and looked at Rose.

Mrs. Ayres caught up the bowl of candy.  “Let me offer you some, Mr. Allen,” she said.  “It is home-made candy, and quite harmless, I assure you.”

Her fair, elderly face confronted him smilingly, her voice was calm.

“Thank you,” said Horace, and took a sugared almond.

Lucy made a movement as if to stop him, but her mother laid her hand with gentle firmness on her arm.  “Sit down, Lucy,” she said, and Lucy sat down.

Chapter XII

Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading his Sunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away.  Henry’s paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently.  Occasionally she smiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks she understands the author, to her own credit.  Henry scowled over his paper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own credit.

Both were quite engrossed.  Sylvia had reached an extremely interesting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section of his paper which made him fairly warlike.  However, the clock striking four aroused both of them.

“I think it is very funny that they have not come home,” said Sylvia.

“I dare say they will be along pretty soon,” said Henry.

Sylvia looked keenly at him.  “Henry Whitman, did he go to the Ayres’s?” said she.

Henry, cornered, told the truth.  “Well, I shouldn’t wonder,” he admitted.

“I think it is pretty work,” said Sylvia, angry red spots coming in her cheeks.

Henry said nothing.

“The idea that a young man can’t be in the house with a girl any longer than this without his fairly chasing her,” said Sylvia.

“Who knows that he is?”

“Do you think he is interested in the Ayres girl?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then it is Rose,” said Sylvia.  “Pretty work, I call it.  Here she is with her own folks in this nice home, with everything she needs.”

Henry looked at Sylvia with astonishment.  “Why,” he said, “girls get married!  You got married yourself.”

“I know I did,” said Sylvia, “but that hasn’t got anything to do with it.  Of course he has to chase her the minute she comes within gunshot.”

“Still, there’s one thing certain, if she doesn’t want him he can take it out in chasing, if he is chasing, and I don’t think he is,” said Henry.  “Nobody is going to make Rose marry any man.”

“She don’t act a mite in love with him,” said Sylvia, ruminatingly.  “She seemed real mad with him this noon about that candy.  Henry, that was a funny thing for him to do.”

“What?” asked Henry, who had so far only gotten Rose’s rather vague account of the candy episode.

Sylvia explained.  “He actually knocked that candy out of her hand, and made her spill the whole box, and then trampled on it.  I saw him.”