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"I ought to be reconciled to it by this time. Is it after seven?" "Yes, ma'am. Mr. Stanford comes home at seven, don't he? He ought to be here soon, now. Mother says she wishes you would come down to the parlour and sit with us of a day, instead of being moped up here." Mrs. Stanford made no reply whatever to this good-natured speech, and the sulky expression seemed to deepen on her face.
Some dim inkling of the truth was in his mind as he spoke. Captain Danton drew his chair closer, and in a low, hurried voice began his story. The story he had once before told Reginald Stanford, the story of his unfortunate son. Doctor Frank listened with a face of changeless calm. No surprise was expressed in his grave, earnest, listening countenance.
Yet grotesque and insulting as the thing had been, he was conscious that if the little mask were still in his possession he should not have been able to trample on it, but should have taken it to his lips instead. He remembered that now Stanford wore it.
Ruth's eyes were downcast, which was necessary, for she occupied herself in pulling blade after blade of grass, sometimes weaving them together. Stanford had said he wished to question her, but he apparently forgot his intention, for he seemed wholly satisfied with merely looking at her.
Undoubtedly he would have been an expert waiter if he had been a waiter at all. But he was not. A famous San Francisco chef has often been quoted in interesting detail as to the "hash-slinging" cleverness of the future American food controller in the dining-room which this chef managed by the way, just after Hoover left college in the great Stanford dormitory in those early days.
She was singing as blithely as a lark until she saw Stanford, whereupon she paused both in her walk and in her song. Stanford, never a backward man, advanced, and was about to greet her when she forestalled him by saying: "I am grieved, indeed, to see that you have recovered." The young man's speech was frozen on his lip, and a frown settled off his brow.
Stanford not even a viscount. By-the-by, you haven't quarrelled with Kate, have you?" "Certainly not. Why should I?" "Of course why should you! She has a perfect right to walk in the grounds at midnight with any gentleman she chooses." She said it rather bitterly. Stanford smiled provokingly.
"Don't be flippant," she stopped him sternly; "it is a very terrible situation, Mr. Beale, and I hardly dare to think of it." "I realize how terrible it is," he said, suddenly bold, "and as I tell you, I will do everything I can to correct my blunder." "Does Mr. Kitson know?" she asked. He nodded. "What did Mr. Kitson say? Surely he gave you some advice." "He said " began Stanford, and went red.
She sang the song, softly and a little sadly, with some dim foreshadowing of trouble weighing at her heart. They lingered there until the clock struck ten Kate's songs and the moonlight charming the hours away. When they went into the house, and took their night-lamps, Stanford bade them good-bye.
One of the best of his histories is that which describes the life of Harald Haardraade, who, after manifold adventures by land and sea, now a pirate, now a mercenary of the Greek emperor, became King of Norway, and eventually perished at the battle of Stanford Bridge, whilst engaged in a gallant onslaught upon England.
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