THE CIRCASSIAN GRAND

Miss Lucile Wollaston was set to exude sympathy, like an aphid waiting for an overworked ant to come down to breakfast.  But there was no sympathizing with the man who came in from a doctor’s all-night vigil like a boy from a ball-game, gave her a hard brisk kiss on the cheek-bone, and then, before taking his place at the table, unfolded the morning paper for a glance at the head-lines.

If there was something rigorous about the way she lighted the alcohol lamp under the silver urn and rang for Nathaniel, the old colored butler, it was from a determination not to let this younger brother of hers put her into a flurry again as he so often did.  A very much younger brother indeed, he seemed when this mood was on him.

Miss Wollaston was born on the election day that made James Buchanan president of the United States and Doctor John within a few days of Appomattox.  But one would have said, looking at them here at the breakfast table on a morning in March in the year 1919, that there was a good deal more than those ten years between them.  He folded his paper and sat down when the butler suggestively pulled out his chair for him and his manner became, for the moment, absent, as his eye fell upon a letter beside his plate addressed in his daughter, Mary’s, handwriting.

“I want a big platter of ham and eggs, Nat, sliced thick.  And a few of Lucartha’s wheat cakes.”  He made some sort of good-humored, half articulate acknowledgment of the old servitor’s pleasure in getting such an order, but one might have seen that his mind was a little out of focus, for it was not exactly dealing with the letter either.  He sliced it open with a table knife with the precise movement one would have expected from a surgeon and disengaged it in the same neat way from its envelope.  But he read it as if he weren’t very sharply aware of what, particularly, it had to say and he laid it beside his plate again without any comment.

“Did you have any sleep last night, at all?” Miss Wollaston asked.

It brought him back like a flash.  “Not a wink,” he said jovially.

This was a challenge and the look that went with it, one of clear boyish mischief, was one that none of John Wollaston’s other intimates—­and among these I include his beautiful young wife and his two grown-up children by an earlier marriage—­ever saw.  It was a special thing for this sister who had been a stately young lady of twenty when he was a bad little boy of ten.  She had watched him, admiring yet rather aghast, ever since then.

To the world at large his social charm lay in—­or was at least inseparable from—­his really exquisite manners, his considerateness, the touch of old-fashioned punctilio there was about him.  His first wife would have agreed with her successor about his possession of this quality though they would have appraised it rather differently.  Only this elderly unmarried sister of his felt the fascination of the horrible about him.