Mr. ¬ÝTaylor Calls
“Thinking the matter over,” said Harry Cresswell to his father, “I’m inclined to advise drawing this Taylor out a little further.”
The Colonel puffed his cigar and one eye twinkled, the lid of the other being at the moment suggestively lowered.
“Was she pretty?” he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and the father continued:
“I had a telegram from Taylor this morning, after you left. He’ll be passing through Montgomery the first of next month, and proposes calling.”
“I’ll wire him to come,” said Harry, promptly.
At this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. Helen Cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air. Outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest, and her interest in herself was not absorbing. Yet she had a curiously sweet way. Her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble.
“Good morning,” she said, with a soft drawl. She sauntered over to her father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair.
‚ÄúDid you get that novel for me, Harry?‚Äù‚ÅÝ‚Äîexpectantly regarding her brother.
“I forgot it, Sis. But I’ll be going to town again soon.”