Branches,

Branches

Friday night, November 4th.

This morning Mr. Carruthers had his coffee alone. Mr. Barton and I breakfasted quite early, before 9 o’clock, and just as I was calling the dogs in the hall for a run, with my outdoor things already on, Mr. Carruthers came down the great stairs with a frown on his face.

This

“Up so early!” he said. “Are you not going to pour out my tea for me, then?”

“I thought you said coffee! No, I am going out,” and I went on down the corridor, the wolf-hounds following me.

“You are not a kind hostess!” he called after me.

“I am not a hostess at all,” I answered back, “only a guest.”

He followed me. “Then you are a very casual guest, not consulting the pleasure of your host.”

I said nothing; I only looked at him over my shoulder, as I went down the marble steps—looked at him, and laughed as on the night before.

He turned back into the house without a[36] word, and I did not see him again until just before luncheon.

[36]

There is something unpleasant about saying good-bye to a place, and I found I had all sorts of sensations rising in my throat at various points in my walk. However, all that is ridiculous, and must be forgotten. As I was coming round the corner of the terrace, a great gust of wind nearly blew me into Mr. Carruthers’ arms. Odious weather we are having this autumn.

“Where have you been all the morning?” he said, when we had recovered ourselves a little. “I have searched for you all over the place.”

“You do not know it all yet, or you would have found me,” I said, pretending to walk on.

“No, you shall not go now,” he exclaimed, pacing beside me. “Why won’t you be amiable and make me feel at home.”

“I do apologize if I have been unamiable,” I said, with great frankness. “Mrs. Carruthers always brought me up 

 Prev. P 18/136 next