Mr. Sewell as he cut at the roast beef lengthwise,
being denied by his wife a pantomimic prayer to be
allowed to cut it crosswise, tried to make talk with
Barker about the weather at Willoughby Pastures.
It had been a very dry summer, and he asked if the
fall rains had filled up the springs. He said
he really forgot whether it was an apple year.
He also said that he supposed they had dug all their
turnips by this time. He had meant to say potatoes
when he began, but he remembered that he had seen
the farmers digging their potatoes before he came
back to town, and so he substituted turnips; afterwards
it seemed to him that dig was not just the word to
use in regard to the harvesting of turnips. He
wished he had said, “got your turnips in,”
but it appeared to make no difference to Barker, who
answered, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,”
and “Yes, sir,” and let each subject drop
with that.
III.
The silence grew so deep that the young Sewells talked
together in murmurs, and the clicking of the knives
on the plates became painful. Sewell kept himself
from looking at Barker, whom he nevertheless knew
to be changing his knife and fork from one hand to
the other, as doubt after doubt took him as to their
conventional use, and to be getting very little good
of his dinner in the process of settling these questions.
The door-bell rang, and the sound of a whispered conference
between the visitor and the servant at the threshold
penetrated to the dining-room. Some one softly
entered, and then Mrs. Sewell called out, “Yes,
yes! Come in! Come in, Miss Vane!”
She jumped from her chair and ran out into the hall,
where she was heard to kiss her visitor; she reappeared,
still holding her by the hand, and then Miss Vane
shook hands with Sewell, saying in a tone of cordial
liking, “How d’ye do?” and
to each of the young people as she shook hands in
turn with them, “How d’ye do, dear?”
She was no longer so pretty as she must have once
been; but an air of distinction and a delicate charm
of manner remained to her from her fascinating youth.
Young Sewell pushed her a chair to the table, and
she dropped softly into it, after acknowledging Barker’s
presentation by Mrs. Sewell with a kindly glance that
probably divined him.
“You must dine with us,” said Mrs. Sewell.
“You can call it lunch.”
“No, I can’t, Mrs. Sewell,” said
Miss Vane. “I could once, and should have
said with great pleasure, when I went away, that I
had been lunching at the Sewells; but I can’t
now. I’ve reformed. What have you
got for dinner?”
“Roast beef,” said Sewell.
“Nothing I dislike more,” replied Miss
Vane. “What else?” She put on her
glasses, and peered critically about the table.
