Part 17 (1/2)

”For a man--of course,” he said hastily. ”I meant for a man. But in a general way I think I may say that love's the thing for everybody! It's the thing for you and me anyhow, eh, Jean?”

Jean felt as though she had scrubbed a lump of crystal and found it to be a diamond. How was it she had never before discovered these depths of affection and geniality below his awe-inspiring exterior? She had not scrubbed hard enough!

”Yes, indeed!” said she. ”Oh, I do understand you now. Father, I'm so happy! And you won't think too hardly of Mr. Vernon, will you?”

”H'm,” smiled her father. ”That's a matter we might well take to avizandum, I think.”

For a daughter of a Writer to the Signet, Jean was woefully ignorant.

She did not know what avizandum meant in the least. But she felt sure it was the name of one of the roads to happiness; and she hugged him again.

It was in the midst of this embrace that Mrs. Donaldson entered. She had always esteemed the author of her own existence and her family's prosperity, but she had never hugged him; nor had he shown any evidence of desiring such an operation.

”Good gracious, Jean!” she exclaimed.

”We are arranging a bike ride,” beamed her father.

To complete the confusion of his more creditable daughter, this improbable announcement was accompanied by an unabashed wink, directed at his less creditable child apparently for the superfluous purpose of a.s.suring her he jested.

That evening Mr. Walkingshaw began to be discussed by his fellow-citizens in earnest.

CHAPTER VI

”You're not drinking, Andrew,” said Mr. Walkingshaw. ”Go on, fill up your gla.s.s. Man, do you call that filling a gla.s.s? Here's the way.”

Leaning across the table, he poured in the port till it stood above the rim, with the steady hand of a man of forty. He was hardly as young as that yet, but he was amazingly rejuvenated. It could not possibly last, Andrew said to himself; still, he felt dreadfully uncomfortable.

”You seem very anxious I should drink,” he said gloomily, looking askance at his br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.s.

”You're so dull, my boy,” his father answered genially. ”There's no life in you at all. You for a lover! You ought to have come back looking happy. One would think she'd broken it off.”

It was the evening of the same day. Andrew had returned from his visit to the Berstouns shortly after Mrs. Donaldson departed, and as Frank was dining out, he and his father sat alone together over their wine.

”I've no reason to feel particularly happy,” he said.

”Eh?” cried his father. ”Nothing gone wrong, is there?”

”I don't understand these women.”

”No,” said Mr. Walkingshaw, with jovial candor, ”you'd be a bit of a stick with the s.e.x, I can well imagine. You haven't the cut of a ladies'

man: but it's all a matter of practice, my boy; just a matter of learning experience as you go along. What did she say to you?”

Andrew was divided in mind. This tone exasperated him beyond measure. He felt inclined to leave the room. Yet, on the other hand, he judged himself ill-used by his betrothed, and when he had any ground of grievance, he had the pleasant habit of venting his complaints as long as his audience would listen to him. To-night the habit proved even stronger than his distaste for his high-spirited parent.

”She was queer,” said he.

”They're all that,” replied Mr. Walkingshaw knowingly. ”The great thing is not to mind what they say. It's what they do that counts: and she'd be affectionate, I suppose, eh?”

”I've never gone in for much of your spooning and kissing and that sort of thing,” began Andrew.