"Uncle Barnabas will come for you in a little while," she told him,
playing the part of the gracious lady to the line and letter. "In the
meantime you must let me make you a cup of tea. I am sure you must be
needing it after having ridden so far. Take the easy-chair, and we can
talk comfortably while the kettle is boiling. Are you new to the West,
Mr. Blount, or is this only a return to your own? The senator is always
talking about you, you know; but he is so inordinately proud of you that
he forgets to tell us all the really interesting things that we want to
know."
The serving-man took his own time about coming back; so long a time that
Blount forgot that it was past midnight, that he was a guest in a
strange house, and that he still had not learned the name of his
entertainer. For all this forgetfulness the little lady with the
dark-brown eyes was directly responsible. Almost before he realized it,
Blount found himself chatting with her as if he had always known her,
making rapid strides on the way to confidence and finding her alertly
responsive in whatever field the talk happened to fall. Apparently she
knew the world--his world--better than he knew it himself: she had
summered on the North Shore and wintered in Washington. She knew Paris,
and when the conversation touched upon the Italian art-galleries he was
led to wonder if he had gone through Italy with his eyes shut.
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