His sister! He could fancy Conniston twisting his
mustaches, his cool eyes glimmering with silent laughter, looking on
his predicament, and he could fancy Conniston saying: "It's funny, old
top, devilish funny--but it'll be funnier still when some other man
comes along and carries her off!"
And he, John Keith, would have to grin and bear it because he was her
brother!
Mary Josephine was tapping at his door.
"Derwent Conniston," she called frigidly, "there's a female person on
the telephone asking for you. What shall I say?"
"Er--why--tell her you're my sister, Mary Josephine, and if it's Miss
Kirkstone, be nice to her and say I'm not able to come to the 'phone,
and that you're looking forward to meeting her, and that we'll be up to
see her some time today."
"Oh, indeed!"
"You see," said Keith, his mouth close to the door, "you see, this Miss
Kirkstone--"
But Mary Josephine was gone.
Keith grinned. His illimitable optimism was returning. Sufficient for
the day that she was there, that she loved him, that she belonged to
him, that just now he was the arbiter of her destiny! Far off in the
mountains he dreamed of, alone, just they two, what might not happen?
Some day--
With the cold chisel and the hammer he went to the chest.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144