"
The door having closed her in, Radcliffe lingered aimlessly about,
outside. Without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as if
some rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leaving
life flat and tasteless. He felt like being, what his mother called,
"fractious," but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch a
thorerbred whinin'," and he snapped his jaws together with manly
determination.
At Martha's entrance, Mrs. Sherman glanced up languidly from the book
she was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "You didn't find it
convenient to come to me directly I sent for you, did you, Martha?"
Mrs. Slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted like
some massive caryatid supporting the frame. Something monumental in the
effect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty,
impudent, and Mrs. Sherman hastened to add more considerately, "But I
sent Radcliffe with my message. No doubt he delayed."
"No'm," admitted Martha, "he told me all right enough, but I was in the
middle o' polishin'.
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