The telephone rang and she answered it. Evans was at the other end of the wire.
“Mother wants to speak to you.”
Mrs. Follette asked if she might change her plans for Thanksgiving. “Will you and your brother dine with us, instead of our coming to you? Our New York cousins find that they have the day free, unexpectedly. They had been asked to a house party in Virginia, but their hostess has had to postpone it on account of illness.”
“Is it going to be very grand? I haven’t a thing to wear.”
“Don’t be foolish, Jane. You always look like a lady.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Follette.” Jane hoped that she didn’t look as some ladies look. But there were, of course, others. It was well for her at the moment, that Mrs. Follette could not see her eyes.
“And I thought,” went on the unconscious matron, “that if you were not too busy, you might go with Evans to the grove and get some greens. I’d like the house to look attractive. Is the snow too deep?”
“Not a bit. When will he come?”
“You’d better arrange with him. Here he is.”
Evans’ voice was the only unchanged thing about him. The sound of it at long distance always brought the old days back to Jane.
“After lunch?” he asked.
“Give me time to dress.”
“Three?”
“Yes.”
When luncheon was over, Jane went up-stairs to get into out-of-door clothes. At the foot of the stairs she had a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. She wore a one-piece lilac cotton frock—with a small square apron, and an infinitesimal bib. It was a nice-looking little frock, but she had had it for a million years. That was the way with all her clothes. The suit she was going to put on had been dyed. It had been white in its first incarnation. It was now brown. There was no telling its chromatic future.
She heard steps on the porch, and turned to open the door for Evans.
But it was not Evans. Briggs, Frederick Towne’s chauffeur, stood there with a box in his arms. “Mr. Towne’s compliments,” he said, “and shall I set it in the hall?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Her surprise brought the quick color to her cheeks. She watched him go back down the terrace, and enter the car, then she opened the box.
Beneath clouds of white tissue paper she came upon a long, low basket, heaped with grapes and tangerines, peaches and pomegranates. Tucked in between the fruits were shelled nuts in fluted paper cases, gleaming sweets in small glass jars, candied pineapples and cherries, bunches of fat raisins, stuffed dates and prunes.
Jane talked to the empty air. “How dear of him——”
The white tissue paper fell in drifts about her as she lifted the basket from the box.
There was a little note tied to the handle. Towne’s personal paper was thick and white. Jane was aware of its expensiveness and it thrilled her. His script was heavy and black—the note had, unquestionably, an air.
“Dear Miss Barnes:
“I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your hospitality last night—and you were good to listen to me with so much sympathy. I am hoping that you’ll let me come again and talk about Edith. May I? And here’s a bit of color for your Thanksgiving feast.
“Gratefully always,
“Frederick Towne.”
Jane stood staring down at the friendly words. It didn’t seem within reason that Frederick Towne meant that he wanted to come—to see her. And she really hadn’t listened with sympathy. But—oh, of course, he could come. And it was heavenly to have a thing like this happen on a day like this.
As she straightened up with the basket in her hands, she saw herself again in the long mirror—a slender figure in green—bobbed black hair—golden and purple fruits. She gasped and gazed again. There was Baldy’s picture ready to his hand—November! Against a background of gray—that glowing figure—Baldy could idealize her—make the wind blow her skirts a bit—give her a fluttering ribbon or two, a glorified loveliness.
She sought him in his studio. “I’ve got something to show you, darling-dear.”
He was moody. “Don’t interrupt me, Jane.”
She rumpled up his hair, which he hated. “Mr. Towne sent us some fruit, Baldy, and this.” She held out the note to him.
He read it. “He doesn’t say a word about me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” her eyes were dancing; “Baldy, it’s your little sister, Jane.”
“You didn’t do a thing but sit there and knit——”
“Perhaps he liked to see me—knitting——”
Baldy passed this over in puzzled silence.
“Where’s the fruit?”
“In the house.”
He rose. “I’ll go in with you——” He felt out of sorts, discouraged. The morning had been spent in sketching vague outlines—a sweep of fair hair under a blue hat—detached feet in shoes with shining buckles—a bag that hung in the air without hands. At intervals he had stood up and looked out at the blank snow and the dull sky. The room was warm enough, but he shivered. He suffered vicariously for Edith Towne. He had hoped that she might telephone. He had stayed home really for that.
His studio was in the garage and was heated by a little round stove. Jane said the garage reminded her of the Boffins’ parlor—a dead line was drawn between art and utility. Baldy’s rug and old couch and paints and brushes flung a challenge as it were to the little Ford, the lawn mower, the garden hose and the gasoline cans.
“I have spent three hours doing nothing,” he said, as he shut the door behind him; “not much encouragement in that.”
“I have a model for you.”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.”
He followed her in, full of curiosity.
She showed him the fruit, then picked up the basket. “Look in the mirror, not at me,” she commanded.
Reflected there in the clear glass, so still that she seemed fixed in paint, Baldy really gave for the first time an artist’s eye to the possibilities of his little sister. In the midst of all that crashing color——!
“Gosh,” he cried, “you’re good-looking!”
His air of utter astonishment was too much for Jane. She set the basket on the steps, and laughed until she cried.
“I don’t see anything funny,” he told her.
“Well, you wouldn’t, darling.”
She wiped her eyes with her little handkerchief, and sat up. “I am just dropping a tear for the ugly duckling.”
“Have I made you feel like that?”
“Sometimes.”
Their lighted-up eyes met, and suddenly he leaned down and touched her cheek—a swift caress. “You’re a little bit of all right, Janey,” which was great praise from Baldy.
CHAPTER VI
“STAY IN THE FIELD, OH, WARRIOR!”
Mrs. Follette had been born in Maryland with a tradition of aristocratic blood. It was this tradition which had upheld her through years of