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He stood up and dashed out of the room. In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped him to turn back and sign to young Rainer not to follow. He stammered out something about a touch of dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy nodded sympathetically and drew back. At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant.
Rainer raised his fur collar with a careless gesture. "It's not that that does it the cold's good for me." "And it's not the dinners and dances? What is it, then?" Faxon good-humouredly insisted; to which his companion answered with a laugh: "Well, my uncle says it's being bored; and I rather think he's right!"
Balch, and Faxon, while their luggage was being lifted into the second sleigh, discerned them, by the roving lantern-gleam, to be an elderly greyheaded pair, of the average prosperous business cut. They saluted their host's nephew with friendly familiarity, and Mr.
John Lavington, during his nephew's clumsy attempt to drop the wax and apply the seal, continued to fasten on him a look of half-amused affection; while the man behind the chair, so oddly reduplicating the lines of his features and figure, turned on the boy a face of pale hostility. The impression was so startling that Faxon forgot what was going on about him.
Frank Rainer burst into a laugh. "On such nights? Then you hadn't bolted!" "Bolted?" "Because I'd done something to offend you? My uncle thought you had." Faxon grasped his arm. "Did your uncle send you after me?" "Well, he gave me an awful rowing for not going up to your room with you when you said you were ill.
His laugh ended in a spasm of coughing and a struggle for breath that made Faxon, still holding his arm, guide him hastily into the shelter of the fireless waiting room. Young Rainer had dropped down on the bench against the wall and pulled off one of his fur gloves to grope for a handkerchief.
He stood up and dashed out of the room. In the gallery, the instinct of self-preservation helped him to turn back and sign to young Rainer not to follow. He stammered out something about a touch of dizziness, and joining them presently; and the boy waved an unsuspecting hand and drew back. At the foot of the stairs Faxon ran against a servant.
The sense of elder brotherly concern that forced the words from Faxon made him, as he spoke, slip his arm impulsively through Frank Rainer's. The latter met the movement with a responsive pressure. "Oh, I AM: awfully, awfully. And then my uncle has such an eye on me!" "But if your uncle has such an eye on you, what does he say to your swallowing knives out here in this Siberian wild?"
Other building there was none: the village lay far down the road, and thither since the Weymore sleigh had not come Faxon saw himself under the necessity of plodding through several feet of snow. He understood well enough what had happened: his hostess had forgotten that he was coming.
Grisben was saying, with an unexpected incisiveness of tone. Mr. Lavington laid down his spoon and smiled interrogatively. "Oh, facts what are facts? Just the way a thing happens to look at a given minute...." "You haven't heard anything from town?" Mr. Grisben persisted. "Not a syllable. So you see.... Balch, a little more of that petite marmite. Mr. Faxon... between Frank and Mr.
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