“That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine.”
“My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park.”
“So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving me so long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is worth to attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of three, four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are at a standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance to Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at least. There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow. And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments, while I go to change my clothes.”
“That's the wisest thing you could possibly do,” he returned. “I shall amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind invitation to remain over night----”
“As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business to call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal.”
I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to Josephine and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised and relieved. They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever since I had left the house; and as they listened to the account I gave them of my misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror.
“Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below stairs in the library,” I concluded.
“Oh, is he? Then,” cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, “let us go to him at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him, my uncle might----” She completed her sentence by putting her arms around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were ever given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips. “Now, sir,” she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, “I hope that you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we two wise women warn you not to.”
“I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss--this time imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead.
I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to luncheon--the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously together--chatting, laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the vivacity that was becoming to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; and I had no reason to suppose that my sister did not. Luncheon concluded, we adjourned to the drawing-room. There, observing the piano, Fairchild demanded of Miriam whether she played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had procured for her the best musical instruction to be had in Adironda; and she had mastered the instrument with a facility which proved that Louise Massarte must have been a talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and then Fairchild said--