dropped handkerchiefs, but tyrannical of opinion. They were thoughtful about candy and flowers, but thoughtless about feelings and income. Altogether they were delightful, but cloying. This man was startlingly different; ungainly and always in a desperate, unaccountable hurry. He knew no pretty speeches, he certainly did not measure up to her standard of breeding, and yet somehow he was a gentleman. All this was new to Helen Cresswell, and she liked it.
Meanwhile the men above-stairs lingered in the Colonel‚Äôs office‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe older one perturbed and sputtering, the younger insistent and imperturbable.
“The fact is, father,” he was saying, “as you yourself have said, one bad crop of cotton would almost ruin us.”
“But the prospects are good.”
‚ÄúWhat are prospects in March? No, father, this is the situation‚ÅÝ‚Äîthree good crops in succession will wipe off our indebtedness and leave us facing only low prices and a scarcity of niggers; on the other hand‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù The father interrupted impatiently.
“Yes, on the