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He was proud of his elegant mansion, and fancied that it expressed himself, and the glory that his life had grown to. Frank Sunderline knew that it expressed him-self; for he had put himself his hope, his ambition, his sense of right and fitness into every stroke and line.
She felt, inwardly, the certainty that this would count for much in Mrs. Ingraham's plain, old-fashioned way of judging things; she was afraid of a misjudgment for Frank Sunderline, if he did not, perhaps, mean anything particular by it; she would have refused him ten times over, and let the refusal rest with her, sooner than have him blamed; for what business had she, after all, "Well, Ray?"
"O, mother doesn't see; she doesn't understand. How can she, living as she does? I could make her advise me to suit myself. She never goes about. The world has run ahead of her. She says I must conclude as I think best." Sunderline was silent. "I've a chance," said Marion, "if I will take it. A chance to do something that I like, something that I think I could do.
It was a kind of a Sunday feeling with which Frank Sunderline was glad, though it was the middle of the week. The sense of accomplishment is the Sunday feeling. It is the very feeling in which God Himself rested; and out of his own joy, bade all his sons rest likewise in their turn, every time that they should end a six days' toil.
Sunderline, why a man should be paid any more than a woman, for standing behind a counter and measuring off the same goods, or at a desk and keeping the same accounts? I don't! That's what I'm complaining of." "That's the complaint of the day, I know," said Sunderline. "And no doubt there's a good deal of special unfairness that needs righting, and will get it.
He would make a treat of it, a holiday, if she would go; he would come and take her with a horse and buggy. He would not ask her to go with him in the cars and be stared at. He had never thought of asking her to go to ride, or of showing her any set "attention" before. Frank Sunderline was not one of the young fellows who begin, and begin in a hurry, at that end.
They paused here; Frank Sunderline rested his box of tools on the low wall that ran up and joined the fence, and Marion turned and stood with her face toward him in the western light, and her little pink-lined linen sunshade up between her and the low sun, between her and the roadway also, down which might come any curious passers-by.
She said something like that to Frank Sunderline, when he sat talking with her over some building accounts one evening. He had come in as a friend and had helped them in many little ways; beside having especial occasion in this matter, as representing his own employer who held a small demand against the estate. "I am too young," she told him. "Dot is too young.
It is a difficult position for a young man to find himself in: that of suddenly elected confidant and judge concerning a young woman's personal affairs; unless, indeed, he be quite ready to seek and assume the permanent privilege. It is a hazardous appeal for a young woman to make. It may win or lose, strengthen or disturb, much. "Your mother" began Sunderline.
If she had come at you, as half the women in the world would have done, you'd be a dead man this minute. Your sister, Sunderline?" "No, sir only a friend." "Ah! onlier than a sister, may be? Well!" Sunderline replied nothing, beyond a look. "I beg your pardon. It's none of my business." "It's none of my business, so far as I know," said Frank. "If it were, there would be no pardon to beg."
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