The weeks of her absence had emphasized every tragic
detail of the room and the man. He had probably missed her terribly from
his bare life, but he had made no sign, given no call.
"Uncle William!"
Truedale turned his head and fixed his deep-sunk, brilliant eyes upon
her.
"Oh! So you've thought better of it?" was all that he said.
"Yes, I've thought better of it. Will you let me stay to dinner?"
"Take off your wraps. There now! draw up the ottoman; so long as you
have a spine, rely upon it. Never lounge if you can help it."
Lynda drew the low, velvet-covered stool near the couch-chair; the hound
raised his sharp, beautiful head and nestled against her knee. Truedale
watched it--animals never came to him unless commanded--why did they go
to Lynda? Probably for the same reason that he clung to her, watched for
her and feared, with sickening fear, that she might never come again!
"I suppose, since Con's death isn't on my head, you felt that you could
forgive me, eh?"
"Well, something like that, Uncle William."
"What business is it of yours what I do with my money--or my nephew?"
These two never approached each other by conventional lines. Their
absences were periods in which to store vital topics and
questions--their meetings were a series of explosive outbursts.
"None of my business, Uncle William, but if I could not approve, why--"
"Approve! Huh! Who are you that you should judge, approve, or disapprove
your elders?"
There was no answer to this.
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