SON OF THE WIND
Mrs. Rader flushed. The color was bright in her sensitive face, as she opened her mouth to pronounce the required words. Carron was sorry for her—so sorry that it seemed almost easier to refuse the request which went no deeper than the lips. But it would have taken a prig or a saint to perform that part. No man could have done it, with the girl upon the other side of the table, her mouth of such a haughty unconcern, her eyes sending such shining, triumphant, inexplicable glances. It seemed to him they had both been, for the moment, favorites of fate.
The scholar, with the Burgundy, kept him sitting after Mrs. Rader had gone into the kitchen. Her daughter rose to follow her out. Carron tried to catch her eye. She ignored him and he heard the rustle of her passing at his back. Then it paused. That incarnation of Puck was behind his chair.
"Didn't father speak his part beautifully? Didn't I do that nicely?" she whispered. Then went off on tiptoe, unattainable for the rest of the evening.
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