Part 20 (2/2)
”Oh, I say, Mr. Galbraith--” began Bob; but his host interrupted him.
”That is a rather rough accusation, isn't it?” declared he, ”and it's not quite fair, either. To tell the truth, Bob's deep in some important work.”
There was a light, scornful laugh from Cynthia.
”He is, my lady. You needn't be so incredulous,” her brother put in.
”Bob is busy with a boat-building project. Dad's got interested in it, too.”
Cynthia pursed her lips with a little grimace.
”Ask him if you don't believe it,” persisted Roger.
”Yes,” went on Mr. Galbraith, ”that old chap over at Wilton has an idea that may make all our fortunes, Bob's included.”
There was a general laugh.
”Well,” pouted Cynthia, glancing down at the toe of her immaculate buckskin shoe, ”I call it very tiresome for Bob to have to work all his vacation.”
”I don't have to,” Robert Morton objected. ”I am simply doing it for fun. Can't you understand the sport of--”
”No, she can't,” her brother a.s.serted. ”Cynthia never sees any fun in working.”
”Roger!” Mrs. Galbraith drawled gently.
”Well, I don't like to work,” owned the girl with delicious audacity.
”I detest it. Why should I pretend to like it when I don't?”
”Cynthia is one of the lilies of the field; she's just made for ornament,” called Roger over his shoulder as he pa.s.sed into the house.
”There is something in being ornamental, isn't there, daughter?” said Mr. Galbraith, dropping into a chair and lighting a fresh cigar.
She was decorative, there was no mistake about that. The skirt of heavy white satin clung to her slight figure in faultless lines, and her sweater of a rose shade was no more lovely in tint than was the faint flush in her cheeks. Every hair of the elaborate coiffure had been coaxed skilfully into place by a hand that understood the cunning, and wherever nature had been guilty of an oversight art had supplied the defect. Yes, Cynthia Galbraith was quite a perfect product, thought Bob, as he surveyed her there beneath the awning.
”I thought Madam Lee was here,” the young man presently remarked, as he glanced about.
Mrs. Galbraith's face clouded.
”Mother is not well to-day,” she answered. ”Careful as we are of her she has in some way taken cold. She is not really ill, but we thought it wise for her to keep her room. She is heartbroken not to be downstairs and I promised that after she had had her luncheon and nap you would go up and see her.”
”Surely!” Robert Morton cried emphatically.
”Mother is so devoted to you, Bobbie,” went on Mrs. Galbraith.
”Sometimes I think she cares much more for you than she does for her own grandchildren.”
”Nonsense! Of course she doesn't.”
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