Part 8 (2/2)
Mr. Pryor, looking over their visitor's head at Helena, shrugged his shoulders.
”It is very nice,” she said vaguely,
”It's a narrowing place,” he demurred, ”very narrowing; sit down, sit down, good people! I'll take some more sherry. My grandson,” he went on, as Helena filled his gla.s.s, ”is always talking about you, madam.
He's a great jacka.s.s. I'm afraid he bothers you with his calls?”
”Oh, not at all,” Helena said nervously. She sat down on the other side of the big rosewood centre-table, glancing with worried eyes at Lloyd Pryor.
”Move that lamp contraption,” commanded Mr. Wright. ”I like to see my hostess!”
And Helena pushed the astral lamp from the centre of the table so that his view was un.o.bstructed.
”Is he a nuisance with his talk about his drama?”
Mr. Wright said, looking across at her with open eagerness in his melancholy eyes.
”Why, no indeed.”
”Do you think it's so very bad, considering?”
”It is not bad at all,” said Mrs. Richie.
His face lighted like a child's. ”Young fool! As if he could write a drama! Well, madam, I came to ask you to do me the honor of taking supper with me to-morrow night, and then of listening to this wonderful production. Of course, sir, I include you. My n.i.g.g.e.r will provide you with a fairly good bottle. Then this grandson of mine will read his truck aloud. But we will fortify ourselves with supper first.”
His artless pride in planning this distressing festivity was so ludicrous that Lloyd Pryor's disgust changed into involuntary mirth.
But Helena was plainly nervous. ”Thank you; you are very kind; but I am afraid I must say no.”
Mr. Pryor was silently retreating towards the dining-room. As for the visitor, he only had eyes for the mistress of the house.
”Why should you say no?”
She tried to answer lightly. ”Oh, I like to be quiet.”
”Quiet?” cried Benjamin Wright, rapping the table with his wine-gla.s.s.
”At your age? Nonsense!” He paused, cleared his throat, and then sonorously:
”'Can you endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon?' Give me some more sherry. Of course you must come. No use being shy--a pretty creatur' like you! And you said you liked the play,” he added with childlike reproach.
Helena, glad to change the subject, made haste to rea.s.sure him. ”I do, I do!” she said, and for a few minutes she kept the old face beaming with her praise of Sam and his work. Unlike his grandson, Mr. Wright was not critical of her criticism. Nothing she could say seemed to him excessive. He contradicted every statement, but he believed it implicitly. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he returned to his invitation. Helena shook her head decidedly.
”No; thank you very much. Mr. Pryor couldn't possibly come. He is only here over Sunday, and--” She looked towards the dining-room for protection, but the door had been gently closed.
”Hey?” Benjamin Wright said blankly. ”Well, I won't insist; I won't insist. We'll wait till he goes. Come Monday night.”
”Oh,” she said, her voice fluttering, ”I am sorry but I really can't.”
”Why can't you?” he insisted. ”Come, tell the truth! The advantage of telling the truth, young lady, is that neither G.o.d nor the devil can contradict you!” He laughed, eying her with high good humor.
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