“‘Why?’ says he.

“‘They ain’t pervided,’ I says.  ’Little boys that’s well-reggerlated, don’t have but two legs.’

“‘Why don’t they?’

“‘Because God thought two was enough for’m.’

“‘Why did God think tho?’

“‘You ask too many questions.’

“’Well, but—­juth lithen—­I want to know—­now lithen—­doth puthy-caths lay eggth?’

“‘No!’

“‘Why don’t puthy-caths lay eggth?’

“‘Because hens has a corner on the egg business.’

“‘Why have they?’

“‘Because they’re born lucky, like Mr. Carnegie an’ Mr. Rockefella.’

“‘Doth Mr. Carnegie an’ Mr. Rockefella—­’

"’No!’

“‘Why don’t they?’

“‘Say, Radcliffe, I ain’t had a hard day,’ says I.  ’But you make me tired.’

“’Why do I?  Now—­juth wonth more—­now—­now lithen wonth more—­ith God a lady?’”

As Claire sat waiting for Mrs. Sherman, stray scraps of recollection, such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the time away.  Then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, less unfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in which she found herself.  She could, at length, look at the door she supposed led into Mrs. Sherman’s room, without such a quick contraction of the heart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make some sort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in the coming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if Mrs. Sherman should say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so.

She had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well in hand, that when, at last, a door opened (not Mrs. Sherman’s door at all, but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in the doorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was Shaw, the butler, come to summon her into the presence, and rose to follow, without too much inner perturbation.

“Mrs. Sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you this morning,” descended to her from an altitude far above her own.  “She hopes you will excuse her.  She has asked me to talk with you in her stead.  You are Miss Lang, I believe?  I am Mrs. Sherman’s brother.  My name is Ronald.”

CHAPTER IX

It is hard to readjust all one’s prearranged plans in the twinkling of an eye.  Claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold water square in the face.  She quite gulped from the shock of it.  How in the world was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions on such short notice—­on no notice at all?  How was she to be anything but awkwardly monosyllabic?

“Sit down, please.”

Obediently she sat.

“Martha—­Mrs. Slawson—­tells me, your father was Judge Lang of Michigan?”

“Yes—­Grand Rapids.”