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A month later Christopher's conversation with Carraway returned to him, when, coming one morning from the house with his dogs at his heels and his squirrel gun on his shoulder, he found Will Fletcher and a troop of spotted foxhound puppies awaiting him outside the whitewashed gate. "I want to speak to you a moment, Mr. Blake," began the boy, in the assured tones of the rich man to the poor.
For an instant the girl looked as if she had more than half an intention to slap his face; then quickly recovering her self-possession, she smiled at Carraway and held out a small white hand with an air of quiet elegance which was the most noticeable thing in her appearance. "I am quite a stranger to you, Mr.
"Under the circumstances, I think it highly advisable that we get pictures of the burial dress. I suggest you have Lydia bring the things to your office before she lays out the body, and that Carraway photograph the dress there, from all angles. I should also like to have a picture of the body after Lydia has finished her services."
"You are very kind," replied Carraway, with a gratitude that was from his heart, "but to tell the truth, I feel that I am sailing under false colours. The real object of my visit is to ask a business interview with your son. I bring what seems to me a very fair offer for the place." Grasping the carved arms of her chair, Mrs. Blake turned the wonder in her blind eyes upon him.
Blake, as Carraway followed the daughter across the threshold. In the kitchen they found Tucker and Lila and a strange young man in overalls, who was introduced as "one of the Weatherbys who live just up the road." He was evidently one of their plainer neighbours for Carraway detected a constraint in Cynthia's manner which Lila did not appear to share.
"It worries me to see a $150 vase used for a purpose that a fifty-cent calico bag would serve quite as well." Carraway glanced searchingly at his wife. "Well ah hem!" he said. "Quite right, my dear, quite right. I think, on the whole, you would better get the calico bag." For a few days after this little discussion Carraway was very reticent about his utilitarian ideas.
Wonderful as it all was, to Carraway the most wonderful thing was the intricate tissue of lies woven around her chair. Lies lies there had been nothing but lies spoken within her hearing for twenty years. Dim wonder was still upon him when Docia appeared bearing her mistress's dinner-tray, and a moment later Cynthia came in and paused uncertainly near the threshold.
"I reckon you lay dat you kin cut yo' mulatter capers wid me all you please, but you'd better look out sharp 'fo' you begin foolin' 'long er Marse Christopher. Dar you go agin, now. Ain' dat des like you? Wat you wanter go sickin' atter dat ole hyar fer, anyhow?" "So that is one of young Blake's hangers-on?" observed Carraway, with a slight inflection of inquiry. "Uncle Boaz, you mean?
Take two pounds and a half of flour, dry it before the fire, and when cold rub in a quarter of a pound of fresh butter, and six ounces of sugar; mix half a pint of yeast that is not bitter, with warm milk, put this to the flour with some carraway seeds; mix all together to a light dough, set it before the fire to rise, then make it into what shape you please; bake them in a slack oven.
"May I help you to turnip salad, Mr. Carraway?" Uncle Boaz, hobbling with rheumatism, held out a quaint old tray of inlaid woods; and the lawyer, as he placed his plate upon it, heaved a sigh of gratitude for the utter absence of vulgarity. He could fancy dear old Miss Saidie puffing apologies over the fat bacon, and Fletcher profanely deploring the sloppy coffee.
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